THE BRIDGE AT ARCIS The long journey was at last over.

The last Alp had been surmounted, the last pass traversed.

Behind them rose the snowy summit of mighty Mont Blanc itself.

Before them lay their wearying journey's end.

It was cold even in sunny Southern France on that morning in early spring.
Marteau, his uniform worn, frayed, travel-stained, and dusty, his close-wrapped precious parcel held to his breast under his shabby great coat, his face pale and haggard from hardship and heartbreak, his body weak and wasted from long illness and long captivity, stood on the top of a ridge of the hill called Mont Rachais, overlooking the walled town of Grenoble, on the right bank of the Isere.