Raymond Cernay, buried in his study like an alchemist in his laboratory, occasionally passed like a ghost through a corridor or sat at the table without recognising us, his gaze lost in space. Dilette, not daring to raise her eyes to him, implored my protection. M. and Mme. Mairieux, being in accord on nothing, maintained protracted silences. I determined to take refuge in flight, but the tragedy anticipated me. On the day of which I speak, we were together in the drawing-room after luncheon, sitting almost in silence, like a family whose scattered members have re-assembled in anticipation of a funeral and await the coming of death. The child once more insisted on a story from me, and I protested that I did not know any more. Cernay, who had not yet opened his mouth, descended from his tower of ivory: “And the Lord of Burleigh?” “I have already told that.” But Dilette clapped her hands, and insisted so long and so hard that I began over again the story of the Lord of Burleigh. I attempted to introduce a variation, generously permitting the heroine to recover, but Cernay shocked his daughter by objecting. When I had finished, he asked in a sarcastic voice: “And what happened then to your Lord of Burleigh?” What was the purpose of this embarrassing question? “I don’t know,” I answered at random. “I suppose he went on living.” “Yes,” he announced, in a tone of utter despair that I can still hear. “Yes, one lives.” He rose from his arm-chair at the corner of the hearth, where a fire was sputtering--one of those fires of half-dried wood which char, cry, and smoke. He paced the room two or three times, his pace growing quicker and quicker. His irregular gait and the fixed expression on his face impressed and worried us. Moreover we heard distinctly phrases not intended for us but referring to my story. “He lived--He forgot the evil he had done--Perhaps he married again.” Then, with sudden decision, he rushed to the door and disappeared. We looked at each other wearily. Some moments later we saw him rush bare-headed through the rain and wind, down the avenue of oaks, and disappear in the direction of the forest. We found nothing more to say until Dilette went out to play. Then Mme. Mairieux assumed an air of importance and favoured us with this news: “Listen to me, I know something. He is really going to marry again. He is already engaged.” “How do you know,” demanded her husband. “I read it in the society announcements two days ago.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did not want to give you pain. I was waiting for him to announce it.” “Do you know the name of his fiancée?” “Mlle. Simone de R--. A good family. It is quite right. He is still so young, he is so rich, so prominent, so much sought after. During that week at Rheims the papers did not talk of anybody but him.” “It is not right,” replied M. Mairieux drily.