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； but then I would say to myself； 'If my wife still believes I am alive； she must believe that I am on my feet。 The boys all think I am on my feet。 They have faith in me。 And I am a skunk if I don't go on。' 〃
So you tramped on ； and each day you cut out a bit more of the opening of your shoes so that your swelling and freezing feet might have room in them。
You confided to me this strange thing：
〃As early as the second day； you know； the hardest job I had was to force myself not to think。 The pain was too much； and I was really up against it too hard。 I had to forget that； or I shouldn't have had the heart to go on walking。 But I didn't seem able to control my mind。 It kept working like a turbine。 Still； I could more or less choose what I was to think about。 I tried to stick to some film I'd seen； or book I'd read。 But the film and the book would go through my mind like lightning。。 And I'd be back where I was； in the snow； It never failed。 So I would think about other things。 。 。 。〃
There was one time； however； when； having slipped； and finding yourself stretched flat on your face in the snow； you threw in your hand。 You were like a boxer emptied of all passion by a single blow； lying and listening to the seconds drop one by one into a distant universe； until the tenth second fell and there was no appeal。
〃I've done my best and I can't make it。 Why go on？〃 All that you had to do in the world to find peace was to shut your eyes。 So little was needed to blot out that world of crags and ice and snow。 Let drop those miraculous eyelids and there was an end of blows； of stumbling falls； of torn muscles and burning ice； of that burden of life you were dragging along like a worn…out ox； a weight heavier than any wain or cart。
Already you were beginning to taste the relief of this snow that had now bee an insidious poison； this morphia that was filling you with beatitude。 Life crept out of your extremities and fled to collect round your heart while something gentle and precious snuggled in close at the centre of your being。 Little by little your consciousness deserted the distant regions of your body； and your body； that beast now gorged with suffering； lay ready to participate in the indifference of marble。
Your very scruples subsided。 Our cries ceased to reach you； or； more accurately； changed for you into dream…cries。 You were happy now； able to respond by long confident dream…strides that carried you effortlessly towards the enchantment of the plains below。 How smoothly you glided into this suddenly merciful world！ Guillaumet； you miser！ You had made up your mind to deny us your return； to take your pleasures selfishly without us among your white angels in the snows。 And then remorse floated up from the depths of your consciousness。 The dream was spoilt by the irruption of bothersome details。 〃I thought of my wife。 She would be penniless if she couldn't collect the insurance。 Yes； but the pany 。 。 。〃
When a man vanishes； his legal death is postponed for four years。 This awful detail was enough to blot out the other visions。 You were lying face downward on a bed of snow that covered a steep mountain slope。 With the ing of summer your body would be washed with this slush down into one of the thousand crevasses of the Andes。 You knew that。 But you also knew that some fifty yards away a rock was jutting up out of the snow。 〃I thought； if I get up I may be able to reach it。 And if I can prop myself up against the rock； they'll find me there next summer。〃
Once you were on your feet again； you tramped two nights and three days。 But you did not then imagine that you would go on much longer：
〃I could tell by different signs that the end was ing。 For instance； I had to stop every two or three hours to cut my shoes open a bit more and massage my swollen feet。 Or maybe my heart would be going too fast。 But I was beginning to lose my memory。 I had been going on a long time when suddenly I realized that every time I stopped I forgot something。 The first time it was a glove。 And it was cold！ I had put it down in front of me and had forgotten to pick it up。 The next time it was my watch。 Then my knife。 Then my pass。 Each time I stopped I stripped myself of something vitally important。 I was being my own enemy！ And I can't tell you how it hurt me when I found that out。
〃What saves a man is to take a step。 Then another step。 It is always the same step； but you have to take it。〃
〃I swear that what I went through； no animal would have gone through。〃 This sentence； the noblest ever spoken； this sentence that defines man's place in the universe； that honors him； that re…establishes the true hierarchy； floated back into my thoughts。 Finally you fell asleep。 Your consciousness was abolished； but forth from this dismantled； burnt； and shattered body it was to be born again like a flower put forth gradually by the species which itself is born of the luminous pulp of the stars。 The body； we may say； then； is but an honest tool； the body is but a servant。 And it was in these words； Guillaumet； that you expressed your pride in the honest tool：
〃With nothing to eat； after three days on my feet 。 。 。 well 。 。 。 my heart wasn't going any too well。 I was crawling along the side of a sheer wall； hanging over space； digging and kicking out pockets in the ice so that I could hold on； when all of a sudden my heart conked。 It hesitated。 Started up again。 Beat crazily。 I said to myself； 'If it hesitates a moment too long； I drop。' I stayed still and listened 'to myself。 Never； never in my life have I listened as carefully to a motor as I listened to my heart； me hanging there。 I said to it： 'e on； old boy。 Go to work。 Try beating a little。' That's good stuff my heart is made of。 It hesitated； but it went on。 You don't know how proud I was of that heart。〃
*
As I said； in that room in Mendoza where I sat with you； you fell finally into an exhausted sleep。 And I thought： If we were to talk to him about his courage； Guillaumet would shrug his shoulders。 But it would be just as false to extol his modesty。 His place is far beyond that mediocre virtue。
If he shrugs his shoulders； it is because he is no fool。 He knows that once men are caught up in an event they cease to be afraid。 Only the unknown frightens men。 But once a man has faced the unknown； that terror bees the known。
Especially if it is scrutinized with Guillaumet's lucid gravity。 Guillaumet's courage is in the main the product of his honesty。 But even this is not his fundamental quality。 His moral greatness consists in his sense of responsibility。 He knew that he was responsible for himself； for the mails； for the fulfillment of the hopes of his rades。 He was holding in his hands their sorrow and their joy。 He was responsible for that new element which the living were constructing and in which he was a participant。 Responsible； in as much as his work contributed to it； for the fate of those men。
Guillaumet was one among those bold and generous men who had taken upon themselves the task of spreading their foliage over bold and generous horizons。 To be a man is； precisely； to be responsible。 It is to feel shame at the sight of what seems to be unmerited misery。 It is to take pride in a victory won by one's rades。 It is to feel； when setting one's stone； that one is contributing to the building of the world。
There is a tendency to class such men with。 toreadors and gamblers。 People extol their contempt for death。 But I would not give a fig for anybody's contempt for death。 If its roots are not sunk deep in an acceptance of responsibility； this contempt for death is the sign either of an impoverished soul or of youthful extravagance。
I once knew a young suicide。 I cannot remember what disappointment in love it was which induced him to send a bullet carefully into his heart。 I have no notion what literary temptation he had succumbed to when he drew on a pair of white gloves before the shot。 But I remember having felt； on learning of this sorry show； an impression not of nobility but of lack of dignity。 So！ Behind that attractive face； beneath that skull which should have been a treasure chest； there had been not