In fact, some newspaper had announced that Guynemer would carry the aviation flag in the Parade of the Fourteenth of July in Paris, and this was enough to persuade the crowd that some other airman was Guynemer. Indeed, there had been talk of sending him to Paris on that solemn occasion, but he had declined. He loved glory, but hated show, and he had followed his squadron to Flanders, where he had taken to his bed. The foregoing letter bears Guynemer's mark unmistakably. The son of rich parents rejoicing over having a room to himself, after having renounced all comfort from the very first day of his enlistment, and willing to begin as _garcon d'aerodrome_; the joke about the German airplane sunk so deep in the wet ground that it would have to be dug out, and the surprise of the pilot; the delight over Raymond's promotion; the amusing allusion to sea-sickness by the man who had no equal in air navigation, are all characteristic details. Sheik Jabias thus sums up his impressions after visiting the Cid in his camp: Vous dominiez tout, grand, sans chef, sans joug, sans digue, Absolu, lance au poing, panache, au front.... And that Cid had never fought up in the air. IV. GUYNEMER IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE To quote him once more, Sheik Jabias, after being dazzled by the Cid in his camp, is supposed to see him in his father's castle at Bivar, doing more humble work. ...Que s'est-il donc passe? Quel est cet equipage? J'arrive, et je vous trouve en veste, comme un page, Dehors, bras nus, nu-tete, et si petit garcon Que vous avez en main l'auge et le cavecon, Et faisant ce qu'il sied aux ecuyers de faire, --Cheick, dit le Cid, je suis maintenant chez mon pere. Those who never saw Guynemer at his father's at Compiegne cannot know him well. Of course, even in camp he was the best of comrades, full of his work, but always ready to enjoy somebody else's success, and speaking about his own as if it were billiards or bridge. His renown had not intoxicated him, and he would have been quite unconscious of it had he not sometimes felt that unresponsiveness on the part of others which is the price of glory: anything like jealousy hurt him as if it had been his first discovery of evil. In Kipling's _Jungle Book_, Mowgli, the man cub, noticing that the Jungle hates him, feels his eyes and is frightened at finding them wet. "What is this, Bagheera?" he asks of his friend the panther. "Oh, nothing; only tears," answers Bagheera, who had lived among men. One who, on occasion, told Guynemer _not to mind_ knows how deep was his sensitiveness, not to the presence of real hostility, which he fortunately never encountered, but even to an obscure germ of jealousy. The moment he felt this he shrank into himself. His native exuberance only displayed itself under the influence of sympathy.