We were only twelve at table, and the conversation soon became general. It is quite unusual nowadays for a dinner to take place without some mention of aviation. The younger generation is enthusiastic about it, and there were two or three young men there who were greatly interested in Mlle. de R--, whose sporting reputation they knew. The fall of a band of mountain climbers, two or three days before at the Dente Blanche, which we could see from the window, its peak still lit up by the sun, while twilight had descended upon us, served to recall the catastrophe in which Raymond Cernay had perished. Nothing was more natural; the allusion had to happen; and Mlle. de R-- showed no surprise, though she did not take part in the conversation. Then some one--though how could one be so untimely and incomplete?--related a version which he had heard retailed in Paris. Cernay had not been killed accidentally; he had married an insignificant wife, and after losing her, committed suicide following some unfortunate love affair. This recital brought forth protestations and an outburst of curiosity. One of the guests, who probably knew about the broken engagement, attempted a diversion. But from all sides opinions were expressed. “Nonsense! Cernay had become a veritable barbarian. No one knew of any liaison.” “Who said it was a liaison?” “Who could have resisted him, then?” “Well, a young girl, who after having accepted him, changed her mind, the good child, and refused to marry him.” Throughout this discussion I had not taken my eyes off Mlle. Simone de R--, who had not taken part in it, but, erect and motionless, seemed in her studied indifference to be lying in wait for an enemy like a sentinel at the top of a tower. Would she, by any chance, dare to intervene, when they were not perhaps aiming at her? She did intervene brusquely with this denial: “It isn’t true.” Every one turned to look at her. Without any embarrassment at all, throwing off constraint like a cloak, and taking a straight course, like one whom no obstacle could stop, she continued, even before her father, guessing her purpose, had an opportunity to interrupt her: “It was I who was engaged to M. Cernay, and it was he who broke our engagement. Mme. Cernay, of whom you speak with such ignorance and injustice, could not have been replaced in his heart. He told me so, and I understood him. That is all. He did not commit suicide.” She made this avowal in a firm and rapid manner. Every one rose from the table. Immediately afterwards she left the room with her father. Cernay had deemed her worthy of knowing the truth then. He had felt that the knowledge would ennoble her. Did she know, as I did, from the notebooks, of the life and death of Raymonde? I was inclined to believe so. However that may be, to render homage to her successful rival, she had just done one of the most difficult things a woman can possibly do--make public avowal of having been jilted by her lover.