And we relapsed into silence in spite of the desire that possessed Mme. Mairieux to excuse and to justify her son-in-law, to whom, whether from indulgence or admiration, she conceded every privilege. I had instantly connected this information with the obscure allusions to “The Woman at Rheims” and “the other” which had escaped from Raymond Cernay when he had been previously disturbed that day at the pond. Nowadays even young girls are famous and the name of Mlle. Simone de R-- was not unknown to me. I had met her two or three times, a tall woman, the effect of height being increased by her way of carrying herself, supple, muscular, possessed of the grace that strength gives, devoted to sport, and a champion at tennis or perhaps polo--I no longer remember exactly--which brought her the honour of having her picture in the illustrated weeklies. She went steadily on her way without coquetry but with the thirst for conquest which is the mark of the new generation. I could easily imagine their introduction at Rheims, she conquered by the boldness of the aviator, he attracted, despite the past, to this beautiful and frank being, who breathed life and promised victory. Two or three hours passed before Raymond Cernay returned, exhausted and drenched, but not calm. The insane look on his face terrified us, as he passed by without noticing our presence. When the bell rang for dinner he did not come down. Going up to his apartment in search of him, I had great difficulty in securing his attention. When I did obtain a reply, it was a flat refusal. Without him the meal was lugubrious, and Mme. Mairieux was quick to withdraw with little Dilette. When we were alone, M. Mairieux confided his fears to me. “I believe I understand him,” he said. “Since his return the past has gripped him again. There are some memories one cannot betray. If you only knew! ... Well, he has not made up his mind about this new marriage. He is tormented, crushed. And it is right that he should be.” Then, either through a deliberate effort at compassion or from an inherent goodness that was stronger than all his bitterness, he added: “His agitation to-night alarms me. You have seen his eyes. He must be watched.” We summoned his valet, Jean, and he admitted that the condition of his master seemed so serious to him that he had not slept for three nights. “M. Cernay,” he said, “was in the habit of immersing himself in his reading or writing until a late hour, and it was not until the early morning that he sought his bed. However, the library adjoined the study and it would be possible to observe him from there without his knowing anything about it.”