The next day I waited in vain for him to take the walk which we had planned. He did not leave his room until the luncheon bell rang, and at table uttered nothing but a few insignificant remarks. Without Dilette, with whom I talked and laughed, and M. and Mme. Mairieux, who took their meals at the chateau while their son-in-law was there, we should not have exchanged twenty sentences during the whole luncheon. * * * In the afternoon he again isolated himself, and on the succeeding days I saw no more of him. Did he avoid me because he thought he had told me too much, too much and not enough? At first I believed this to be the case, and without making any explanations, I informed Mairieux that I was about to leave. Of what use was it to remain? “No,” he urged, “do not affront him that way.” “He would not notice my absence,” I said. “Listen,” replied M. Mairieux. “For one or two weeks last year he was so depressed that he moved me to pity. Besides, your company will be welcome to us. Wait, I beg of you.” “But what does he do all day?” I asked. We were talking in the carriage road. Raymond Cernay’s apartments consisted of three adjoining rooms on the second story, a library, a study, and a bedroom. The autumn days were so mild that the large bay window of the study was open and we could see him seated at a table, with his head between his hands. He was reading or studying. A ray of light came to me--he disappeared in order to work the better on his monoplanes. “Calculations?” I asked M. Mairieux. “I don’t think so.” In spite of myself, the secret of this man’s life tormented, I was about to say haunted, me. Why at our first meeting had he imagined himself to be the Lord of Burleigh whose wife could not live outside of her own environment? What was there connected with Mme. Cernay for which he blamed himself? Why did he insist upon punishment for some unknown crime or crimes which nobody but he suspected? * * * I fell into the habit of spending the end of each day at the pavilion in order to escape from the morose atmosphere of the chateau. One evening it happened that Mme. Mairieux began to speak freely of her daughter and with deep emotion. Sympathising with her grief, I tried to console her: “At least she was happy,” I murmured. “Was she not?” the good lady replied quickly. “Her husband gave her such a beautiful life, Paris, society, luxury, entertainments, everything that one cares for at her age. It is true that she was not as fond of that sort of thing as most young women are. According to my ideas, she was a little too quiet and serious. It was pleasure, nevertheless, especially after this desert of The Sleeping Woods.” “This _desert_ pleased her,” interrupted M. Mairieux, who did not like this statement. “Perhaps the change was too abrupt,” I suggested.