A Rogue's Tragedy by Bernard Capes — Read

We mortals discuss the world as a subject of our common understanding, and no two of us see it with the same eyes. To Victor-Amadeus the third's, for example, it was a stage for _fêtes galantes_; to the Chevalier de France's a ball fettered to the ankle of an heir-at-law, infamously kept from his inheritance; to those of a certain "little corporal," as yet unaccredited, it was a potential family estate; to Yolande's and Louis-Marie's a reformatory for original sin; to Bonito's it was a footstool to the stars, to Cartouche's an absurd necessity, to Jacques Balmat's a glorious field for adventure.

In 1786 Jacques was the most famous man in Le Prieuré, and for long distances beyond it. In notability he had outstripped all these other claimants to our attention. For he had won his mountain and his wife, and basked in the lustre and the reward of a great enterprise greatly accomplished. Yet he took his reputation modestly, as became one who had looked on Death too often and too close to boast himself superior to that God. He'd propitiated, not defied him. There was something very solemn, very sobering in having gained that awful shadow for one's friend. So he accepted his part without arrogance, but without hypocrisy.