"No man has the right to get away from the front as long as the war lasts," he said. "I see very well what you are thinking, but you know that self-sacrifice is never wasted. Don't let us talk any more about it...." On Tuesday, August 28, Guynemer, having been obliged to come to Paris again for repairs to his airplane, went to Saint-Pierre de Chaillot. It was not exceptional for him to visit this old church; he loved to prepare himself there for his battle. One of the officiating priests has written since his death of "his faith and the transparency of his soul."[28] The Chaillot parishioners knew him well, but pretended not to notice him, and he thought himself one in a crowd. After seeing the priest in the confessional, he usually enjoyed another little chat in the sacristy, and although he was no man for long prayers and meditations, he expressed his thoughts on such occasions in heartfelt and serious language. [Footnote 28: _La Croix_, October 7, 1917, article by Pierre l'Ermite.] "My fate is sealed," he once said in his playful, authoritative way; "I cannot escape it." And remembering his not very far away Latin, he added: "_Hodie mihi, cras tibi_...." * * * * * Early in September he made up his mind to go back to Flanders, although his airplane was not yet entirely repaired. The day before leaving he was standing at the door of the Hotel Edouard VII when one of his schoolmates at the College Stanislas, Lieutenant Jacquemin, appeared. "He took me to his room," this officer relates, "and we talked for more than an hour about schooldays. I asked him whether he had some special dodge to be so successful." "None whatever," he said, "but you remember I took a prize for shooting at Stanislas. I shoot straight, and have absolute confidence in my machine." He showed me his numberless decorations, and was just as simple and full of good fellowship as he was at Stanislas. It was evident that his head had not been in the least turned by his success; he only talked more and enjoyed describing his fights. He told me, too, that in spite of opposition from airplane builders he had secured a long-contemplated improvement; and that he had had a special camera made for him with which he could photograph a machine as it fell. His parting words were: "I hope to fly to-morrow, but don't expect to see my name any more in the _communiques_. That's all over: I have bagged my fifty Boches." Were not these strange words, if indeed Guynemer attached any meaning to them? At all events, they expressed his innermost longing, which was to go on flying, even if he should fly for nothing. * * * * *