The driver nervously fidgeted at the controls, watching the procession through a glass partition separating the driver compartment from the passenger compartment and waited for the official nod to start the train moving towards the tunnel opening only a hundred metres away. Catching a stern glance from the president, the driver nodded, knowing if he did anything wrong on this trip, it would be his last. Finally the doors closed and shut out the official party standing staring from the platform. As the train’s noisy compressor cut in to release the brakes, the driver inched the controls and the carriage began to move forward, preparing the electric drive motor for an arduous one hour trip and a 2,000 metre climb to the peak’s station. Under the carriage’s superstructure, its driving cog meshed with a rack running down the centre between the two rail lines and firmly propelled the vehicle, preventing wheel slippage as the grade and height above sea level increased exponentially.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 43
Adorning a comfortable bench seat just behind the driver, Madame Trudeau seemed distant and distracted, absentmindedly staring through the large carriage window as the hillside scenery ground past the straining locomotive. With the view constantly changing, modern suburbia interspersed with belle époque antiquity began to fade and the traditional lodges of the working class emerged. As the single carriage cog train struggled to climb, manicured gardens and wooden chalet-like architecture surrounding the quaint station of Les Planches only a few minutes up the line from the Gare de Montreux held Madame’s fascinated attention and sidetracked her preoccupied thoughts. From opposite sides of the carriage isle, Clayton and Chantal silently exchanged worried glances. Confined to their seats by Borsch’s imposing glare and as Madame seemed to be well catered for, there appeared to be no reason to interfere in her panoramic enjoyment and obediently left their first lady the required empty spaces.
As the long, precipitous gradient following the mountain’s stony back became progressively steeper, the view widened, allowing Madame to experience the majesty of the Montreux Riviera from an unhindered first-class perspective. With the carriage motors complaining rigorously as the effort increased, the weight of gravity forced their bodies back into the padded seats and gave the cog railway carriage an exhaustive workout. Tirelessly heaving along the nobbly rack with its cog clawing relentlessly and grasping each individual tooth in a tenacious fervour, the grinding locomotive sizzled along at a grand speed of eighteen kilometres per hour.
Then, as if guided by a majestic hand sweeping aside a domestic curtain, the spectacle unfolded completely. Bursting from the village backdrop and leaving the commune rooflines fading and integrating into the steep mountain slope beneath the rail line, the stunning lakeside vista sparkled into view and stole the breath from all who beheld its hypnotising splendour. Deep blue summer skies backlit the misty images of distant reaching mountain barriers, punctuated with an occasional lazy, fluffy white cloud and adorning its highest peaks with a shawl of perfect pallid snow. Perilously peaceful and without the hint of a blemish faulting her stunning features, the intensity of Lac Léman’s gracious navy blue mood reflected perfectly at the feet of her tall and handsome mountain husband.
Ancient castles, medieval spires and tidy quaint villages shared a common stage, elegantly adorning the hem of Lac Léman’s blue skirt and clearly visible from the substantial windows of the ascending cog railway carriage. The enchanting view could have been a window into a mystical romantic era caught in a modern time-warp, freezing the scene into an unstable and unfriendly changing contemporary world as if the train coach was somehow crossing through a gap in the barriers of sanity itself. Climbing ever higher, the shimmering image of Montreux’s jewel intensified, as if drawn into the staring image of a high powered camera lens. The city’s ancient architecture mingled with the new, settling neatly into ordered streets and parks without a figurative hair out of place, mimicking precisely the beauty and perfection of a splendid young bride preparing for her wedding day.
Angelina’s gaze suddenly diverted from the awe-inspiring view as if a hand had drawn a veil over a beautiful woman’s face and the scene unexpectedly changed, overlaying the therapeutic vista with the modern world once again. A mountainside village drew stiffly into the picture and sensing the gently clacking carriage had reduced speed, Madame turned her attention to the driver compartment. She could see the speedometer needle drop as the driver manipulated the carriage controls, slowing from eighteen kilometres per hour to ten. Moments later, the carriage slowed to a walking pace and sidetracked onto a branch line, finally coming to a stop in front of the picturesque rail port of Glion, fifteen minutes up the gruelling mountain track from the Gare de Montreux.
“The village of Glion, Madame!” Borsch called from the back of the carriage as he made his way to the front. Passing sternly by Chantal and Clayton, he gestured firmly with his hands for them to remain seated. “The village is 700 metres above Montreux and is serviced by the Territet-Glion funicular railway ascending 300 metres over a total length of 637 metres. Opened in 1883, it is one of Switzerland’s oldest funicular railways, eclipsed only by the Giessbachbahn in Bern which was opened in 1879,” Borsch drew alongside Madame and continued to baffle Angelina with his knowledge and obscure facts of Glion.
On the platform, a wheelchair waited to take the dignitary for an informative tour and as Angelina’s attention was drawn to her transport, she attempted to interrupt the babbling elder and reassert her independence. “I do not need to be wheeled around like some kind of invalid, Monsieur Borsch!”
Diverted from his lesson and pausing in mid speech, Borsch’s mouth hung open, staring down at Madame like a schoolmaster and having nothing of Madame’s objections. “Madame, at this altitude above sea level one’s heart and lungs have to work harder and even though you say you are feeling well, it is stressful for your illness and may affect your ability to enjoy the rest of the trip. It is no inconvenience for me to wheel you around and I will certainly not entertain any further objections.”
It was at this point that Angelina turned to face Chantal and Clayton. The two just shrugged helplessly, baffled and stunned by the facts effortlessly tumbling over Borsch’s tonsils, overpowered by his staunch persona and seeing no reason to intervene. Yet they read Madame’s expression and growing frustration with the demanding steward perfectly.
Driven on by an urge for peace and civility, Angelina settled uncomfortably into the Borsch-powered tour vehicle waiting on the platform. Chantal and Clayton listened helplessly from their seats in the carriage as the elderly steward explained and pointed out the magnificent castle-like structure of the Glion Institute of Higher Education perched perilously on the mountainside overlooking the city of Montreux.
“You wanna get yourself fired?!” Clayton whispered, his mischievous eyes twinkling across the aisle to his nemesis-come-comrade-in-arms.
“No, I don’t! Chantal exploded, annoyed someone else had muscled in on her territory with Madame. Then as civility turned to incredulousness, she sighed loudly. “I know I’m going to regret this, but what did you have in mind, Guillaume Tell?!” Chantal’s expression was grave, but her eyes never left the scene outside the carriage window as Madame was wheeled around and helplessly barraged with Borsch’s droning commentary.
Clayton leaned across the aisle and whispered, “You know the Fairmont hotel staff pretty well, don’t you?”
“Yes, so what?!” Chantal sizzled, as if she was conversing with a simpleton.
Clayton took a breath and in secretive undertones divulged his devious plan in great detail while Chantal, drawn deeper into the bizarre scheme, smiled broadly, forcing a mischievous expression across her pretty features.
“Okay, but if this goes wrong, it was all your idea!” She reached into her bag, withdrew her smartphone and before long she had entered into a long, friendly conversation.
“Hurry up! They’re coming back,” Clayton hissed harshly.
Quickly, Chantal ended t
he call and placed her phone back in her bag, acting as if nothing had happened.
Madame was finally allowed to abandon her wheelchair and as Borsch helped her aboard the train, her expression was grim, staring dejectedly back at her imprisoned staff as if they had fed her to the lions. Thoroughly pleased with himself, however, Borsch climbed the steps into the carriage while Chantal and Clayton jointly held their breaths.
“You can go now, driver!” Borsch commanded, with the passenger access closing automatically via the touch of a button in the driver compartment.
Suddenly, a middle aged woman ran from within the station office, gesturing passionately to the train and calling for Monsieur Borsch. A collective sigh from the rear of the train drew Borsch’s suspicion and nearly gave away the felonious plot. Borsch directed a sceptical glance towards Madame’s hapless minders and ordered the driver to open the door again. Slowly the access door opened and after a short deliberation with the panting woman, Borsch apologised to Madame for the delay and followed the woman into the station office.
As the elderly steward disappeared inside the station walls, a ruckus exploded from the rear of the train. Chantal and Clayton danced around, calling passionately for the driver to close the door and put some mileage between the carriage and Glion station. Catching on slowly, the driver shut the door and hastily encouraged the carriage out of the village limits and into the open alpine expanse. As Glion fell further and further behind, Chantal and Clayton stared at each other in triumph, but there was still the music to face with Madame and if she objected to their horseplay, it would be dismissal for both of them.
Madame turned to face her two minders and tried to give them a stern look, but she couldn’t hide her relief any longer and sighed heavily. “Thank goodness for that! Whose idea was this?”
Chantal and Clayton pointed at each other like the two stooges, making Madame laugh, but a cloud of uncertainty passed over their faces until Chantal asked the obvious question gnawing at them both.
“You’re not upset at our actions, Madame?” Chantal sounded worried.
Madame reached for Chantal’s hand and caught Clayton’s eye, trying to appear severe but Chantal saw the glint in Madame’s expression, taking her hand in relief. “No, you pair, I’m not upset. I’m somewhat grateful, but don’t make it a habit.”
*~*~*~*
Chapter 44
Outside the window, the high alpine scenery with its open forest lands and rolling green valleys transfixed Chantal’s gaze with flickering images of a distant Lac Léman and Montreux’s miniaturised skyline flashing in and out of her prospect. Now seated directly behind Angelina, Chantal jumped when she heard Madame’s concerned voice breaking into her sober thoughts from the seat in front. Madame had twisted in her seat to face her lady-in-waiting, her soft dark eyes alight with remorse and compassion, holding Chantal’s steady gaze with a determined expression.
“Chantal, I want you to send a letter of apology to Monsieur Beauparlant and also Monsieur Borsch on my behalf once we return to Montreux. Even though their actions stymied my enjoyment of this trip, their intentions were honourable and Monsieur Borsch didn’t deserve the treatment he received.” Madame had obviously been turning over the situation in her mind and decided their collective behaviours had reflected poorly on her husband’s good name.
Chantal diligently removed her electronic diary and began to type a reminder, guiltily aware her and Clayton’s actions had put Madame in a compromised position. “Yes, Madame, I will attend to it immediately we return,” Chantal’s demeanour was repentant and she turned to glare at Clayton who had heard Madame’s request.
“Madame, if I may?” Clayton spoke gently, aware of the dilemma his unprofessional conduct had unwittingly thrust her into. “There is a very good chance Monsieur Borsch may have realised in time the plot of my ill-considered plan and taken road transport to Caux, the next rail station. If he is waiting, I will apologise personally and take full responsibility for the unfortunate incident and any consequences you and Monsieur Trudeau deem appropriate.”
Chantal’s and Madame’s gazes locked onto Clayton’s sombre expression, considering his impassioned speech. Chantal’s mouth hung open in stunned disbelief, but a pleased and glowing smile crossed Angelina’s lips, nodding her approval. Clayton had risen in Madame’s opinion, while his decision to shoulder the blame spoke of a gentleman’s character.
“Yes, Clayton, I would appreciate that, but I’m sure Armon will waver any perceived issues of misconduct once I have explained the situation.”
As the cog rail carriage droned and clacked up the mountainside, the tension inside the passenger compartment increased with each metre the train climbed. It was only minutes before the Caux station appeared, hidden behind a bend in the rail and an overbearing concrete street overpass. As the speed decreased and the train passed under the viaduct, the line straightened and divided, straddling the Caux station. The carriage slowed and all eyes searched the platform, waiting with bated breath, but the image of Monsieur Borsch remained strangely conspicuous by his absence. This time there were four heavy sighs as the train driver joined the relieved passengers, fully aware he had a stake in the felony and the consequences, too.
“Continue on, Monsieur Train Driver, please,” Angelina appeared weary and the stressful situation was making her feel bilious.
Observing the anxiety and concerned for her charge, Chantal struggled from her chair using the seat back to steady her steps before the train carriage once again powered out of the level station and re-entered the severe mountain climb. As the incline drastically increased, her body was forced into a steep, tortured lean towards the rear of the carriage. Weaving with the train’s motion until she stood in front of a small food trolley, Chantal removed the cover, searched the wooden drawers and cupboards until she discovered a decorative cup and saucer and with great concentration, steadied herself against the train’s lurching motion and poured a hot cup of tea from an insulated urn. Placing the rattling cup down in the centre of the jostling table and after a further search, she located a plate covered in aluminium foil. Finding a fresh croissant hiding in a heated drawer, the mouthwatering scent filled the substantial train compartment with the aroma of hot pastry.
Watching Chantal struggle with the train’s motion and her cargo, Clayton sprang to his feet and affirmed his colleague. “Great idea, Chantal. Can I help you?”
She grappled to capture and restrain a sarcastic comment ricocheting around inside her head before it found her mouth and started world war three with an unwise utterance. Instead, she managed a civilised, “Yes, please,” amazed at how easy it was to be courteous to her nemesis, but fully expecting a snide remark in return.
She carefully lifted the cup and saucer, trying to preempt the train’s unpredictable moves and handed it to Clayton. He took the steaming cup from her grasp in one huge hand while using his other to help steady her rocking figure as she worked, prompting a startled response from Chantal. Although it felt awkward at first, she was surprised how gentle he was and how comforting and secure his arm around her waist made her feel. He really could be a gentleman when he tried.
Madame smiled, hiding the rising nausea as her two minders courageously struggled against the train’s motion and the steep uphill gradient balancing their cargo in one hand and steadying their ascent with the other, before finally delivering a hot refreshment to their esteemed first lady. “Aren’t you two treasures. Thank you! I was feeling quite unwell and unsure I was going to make it much further.”
Taking the cup with a smile and a rattling exchange, Madame drew strength from the hot tea while Clayton acted as her table, selflessly holding her saucer and her croissant plate only feet from her grasp. Jostled by the train’s awkward movement, he leaned against another seat to keep his balance, studying Madame’s face carefully as she consumed the hot liquid. Even with the rosy glow missing from her paling cheeks, Madame was still a stunning picture to behold. Becoming awar
e of Clayton’s mesmerised stare, her face flushed with embarrassment and she smiled, forcing Clayton to avert his study and self-consciously concentrate on the scene outside the window instead. The awkwardness evaporated as the small cog carriage entered the gloom of an avalanche protection tunnel; and when the small railed traveller broke from the concrete bunker, Clayton had taken the empty crockery from Madame and placed it back on the food trolley, leaving the foolish encounter behind and allowing Madame to enjoy the remainder of the journey.
Snaking precariously high above sea level and seemingly crawling along the ground like a motorised caterpillar grub, the scenery began to close in around the small cog railway line, leaving sheer mountainous walls and peaks dwarfing the tiny train. With the sprawling valleys tumbling thousands of metres to the lake below, Dent de Jarman’s mountainous canine-toothed image emerged, magnificent among the lower peaks and filling the passengers with awe at its utter size.
But further up the slope, the snow shrouded peak of Les Rochers de Naye stole the show, pushing its jutting white crown proudly skyward and pronouncing prominence over the surrounding Alps. It was a surreal moment as the breathtaking view silenced all activity within the compartment and stunned the passengers into a staring, contemplative silence, suddenly aware of how insignificant and small they appeared against the majesty of God’s dynamic creation.
The train unexpectedly entered another avalanche tunnel and as it burst from the overarching shelter and into a picturesque green, snow-dusted valley, the track executed a long ambling hairpin turn before climbing steeply. Looming majestically in the carriage’s front window and covered in a fresh layer of chilling powdery white, Les Rochers de Naye station celebrated the end of the line.