“They are for my beasts,” he explained. I at once proceeded to question him. “What is the name of this chateau?” “The chateau of the Sleeping Beauty, that is, of the Sleeping Woods.” I could hardly have imagined a name more perfectly responding to the enchantment which had taken possession of me since my entrance into the valley. “Was it not an ancient nunnery?” “Perhaps--once upon a time, long ago. No one knows how long.” “Before the Revolution?” “Long before that. At the Revolution it belonged to the Count.” “What Count?” “Count d’Alligny. The same whose grandson sold it.” “Sold it to whom?” “To M. Cernay, the present owner.” The name Cernay is known to every one nowadays as that borne by the millionaire aviator who has devoted himself to perfecting the aeroplane, and in the train of Bleriot, Latham, the Wrights, has experimented in the conquest of the air. I knew Raymond Cernay personally, having met him in society a few years ago, before he became interested in aviation, and I was proud of the acquaintance. He gave me the impression of a man richly endowed mentally, though perhaps too versatile, one who would find it difficult to fix upon any interest, likely to abandon every attempt if the outcome of it were within easy reach. He had begun to succeed in many things, giving them up, each one, at the first smile of success, as if a mere forecast of glory was all he sought. A few rough-hewn sculptures, the narrative of a journey in the Indies, daring century motor rides, brief scientific investigations had sufficed at that time to win for him a sort of reputation in society for originality. The reputation was fostered by constant change, and appeared to satisfy him, for above all things he valued the celebrity of the drawing room. During the last few years he had disappeared from Paris, doubtless to devote himself all the more fervently to the new passion of aviation. I at once spread out my arms in imitation of a bird. “Cernay--the one who flies?” The man gazed at my pantomime with astonishment. He did not understand. Fame is short-lived. But there might be other Cernays. Pointing to the building I asked: “Does he live here?” “Not much, since his lady died.” “His _lady_ is dead? How long ago?” “The grain has been reaped three times.” Then, memory awakening within him, he added: “I who tell you, I carried her to the grave. She was not very heavy, poor thing! But to know she was dead--that took the strength out of your arms and legs. All the villagers came.”