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previous day, it had only taken a few minutes before all three climbers were safe, but each of those minutes could have been measured in sixty parts, and then not forgotten for a lifetime.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I T WAS CLEAR from the moment they entered Paris that Mr. Irving was no stranger to the city, and George and Guy were only too happy to allow their housemaster to take the lead, having already agreed to his suggestion that they should spend the final day of their trip in the French capital celebrating their good fortune.
    Mr. Irving booked them into a small family hotel, located in a picturesque courtyard in the 7th arrondissement. After a light lunch he introduced them to the day life of Paris: the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe. But it was the Eiffel Tower, built for the Universal Exhibition of 1889 in celebration of the centenary of the French Revolution, that captured George’s imagination.
    “Don’t even think about it,” said Mr. Irving when he caught his charge looking up at the highest point of the steel edifice, some 1,062 feet above them.
    Having purchased three tickets for six francs, Mr. Irving herded Guy and George into an elevator, which transported them on a slow journey to the top of the tower.
    “We wouldn’t even have reached the foothills of Mont Blanc,” George commented as he looked out over Paris.
    Mr. Irving smiled, wondering if even conquering Mont Blanc would prove enough for George Mallory.
    After they had changed for dinner, Mr. Irving took the boys to a little restaurant on the Left Bank where they enjoyed foie gras accompanied by small glasses of chilled Sauternes. This was followed by boeuf bourguignon, better than any beef stew either of them had ever experienced, which then gave way to a ripe brie; quite a change from school food. Both courses were washed down with a rather fine burgundy, and George felt it had already been one of the most exciting days of his life. But it was far from over. After introducing his two charges to the joys of cognac, Mr. Irving accompanied them back to the hotel. Just after midnight he bade them good-night before retiring to his own room.
    Guy sat on the end of his bed while George started to undress. “We’ll just hang around for a few more minutes before we slip back out.”
    “Slip back out?” mumbled George.
    “Yes,” said Guy, happily taking the lead for a change. “What’s the point of coming to Paris if we don’t visit the Moulin Rouge?”
    George continued to unbutton his shirt. “I promised my mother…”
    “I’m sure you did,” mocked Guy. “And you’re now asking me to believe that the man who plans to conquer the heights of Mont Blanc isn’t willing to plumb the depths of Parisian nightlife?”
    George reluctantly rebuttoned his shirt as Guy switched off the light, opened the bedroom door, and peeked out. Satisfied that Mr. Irving was safely tucked up in bed with his copy of Three Men in a Boat , he stepped out into the corridor. George reluctantly followed, closing the door quietly behind him.
    Once they had reached the lobby, Guy slipped out onto the street. He’d hailed a hansom cab before George had time for second thoughts.
    “The Moulin Rouge,” Guy said with a confidence he hadn’t shown on the slopes of any mountain. The driver set off at a brisk pace. “If only Mr. Irving could see us now,” said Guy as he opened a silver cigarette case George had never seen before.
    Their journey took them across the Seine to Montmartre, a mountain that hadn’t been part of Mr. Irving’s itinerary. When they came to a halt outside the Moulin Rouge, George wondered if they would even be allowed into the glamorous nightclub when he saw how smartly dressed most of the revelers were—some even wearing dinner jackets. Once again Guy took the lead. After paying the driver, he extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet and handed it to the doorman, who gave the two young men a doubtful look but still pocketed the money and