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about my future, which appeared to me in the most sombre light.
    During the summer of 1939 the thing happened which a whole world had believed impossible: war. Throughout the following months I found myself very much alone and my situation was, in sober fact, critical. My father seemed to have lost all interest in me, and I could expect no further help from this quarter. My mother, who had considerably reduced her fortune in a number of unfortunate speculations, could no longer support me without difficulty, and lacked the means to make me independent. After my ill-starred record at school I had no chance of earning my living in an intellectual profession; and since I had not been allowed to learn a trade nothing of that sort was open to me apart from simple labouring. The only activity through which I could reasonably hope to find a way out of this maze was skiing, and in those days a skiing instructor’s life was far from being as lucrative as it is today. I was painfully aware that it provided one with a poor sort of livelihood for the winter months alone, and that the only way to make a decent thing out of it was to be an international champion. My recent successes gave me some slight hope of one day joining the elect, but a career built on such a dubious speculation seemed about as uncertain as could be. To cap everything, the war had reduced all skiing activity to virtually nil. Nine-tenths of the money had gone out of it, and all competitions had been forbidden.
    I spent the first part of the winter at Luchon, working in the sports shop of a friend, repairing skis, putting on bindings and edges, and helping to sell. But there was practically no business, and I was soon forced to go back to Chamonix. There I could at least go on training, and I had the rather slender satisfaction of winning the only race held that melancholy winter. I was about to volunteer for the army when the disaster of 1940 occurred. My personal decisions were deferred for a few more months.
    Since my unfortunate traverse of the Grépon I had given up any idea of the really big climbs without, however, giving up mountaineering altogether. At Villard-de-Lans I had done a lot of hill-walking and a number of short climbs, some of which were quite difficult. At Chamonix, apart from some easy scrambles, I had done a lot of spring and summer skiing, which often amounts to more or less the same thing. I would have liked to do bigger climbs, but did not believe myself able to lead them, while the few friends I had who could have taken me along as a second were naturally not too keen to load themselves down with a semi-beginner. Such was my general state one fine morning in July 1940 when the mountains shone in their perfect beauty through the crystal-clear air. I was reading in my room, my open window giving on to Mont Blanc, when I received a visit from a recently demobilised climber who wanted to forget among the mountains the disgrace of an inglorious defeat. He was looking for a companion, and a mutual friend had put him on to me. Only too happy to escape from my frustrations into the ecstasy of action, I accepted his invitation with enthusiasm.
    We immediately began to discuss plans. To my dismay, my visitor suggested doing the Mayer-Dibona ridge on the Dent du Requin as our first climb. This had the reputation, in those days, of being very difficult, and only strong parties dared to attempt it. I was so afraid of launching out into an adventure which seemed so far above my standard that the newcomer was forced to point out that he was a member of the G.H.M., and that in his company I could try anything. I continued to refuse to have anything to do with such a hare-brained scheme, and suggested instead the much easier south ridge of the Moine. Being unable to budge me, the member of the G.H.M. ended by resignedly agreeing to take me up this somewhat inglorious ridge.
    I had now had several years of intermittent climbing, hill-walking and