Cernay’s ability as a pilot was universally known. People passed over the aviator’s fault. The broken aeroplane would not give up the secret of its downfall. It was known that he had flown the day before in stormy weather, and it was supposed, considering the condition of the canvas and wood, which were still rain-soaked, that there had been some warping by the heat of the sun that made them offer insufficient resistance to the wind. The accident was thought to be similar to the one which had killed Wachter at Rheims. For a while, people spoke very feelingly about it. Later others took his place in the gloomy series.
Cernay terminated his career like a solitary, apart from the multitude, after the manner of some mountain climber who accomplishes his dangerous ascent alone and is found some day dead at the bottom of an abyss.
* * *
Two months later I was presented to Mlle. Simone de R—. I had already met her, but had never had an opportunity of speaking to her. We were among the few French people at a Swiss resort near the snow line, an unattractive place for men and women of the world. One of us, by way of a little diversion, had invited us all to dinner that evening. I confess that I studied carefully the face of that tall and graceful young woman, who bore victory on her forehead. What did she know of that Raymonde, whose place she had almost filled? What recollections, more or less bitter, did she retain of her cruel fiancé of a few weeks?
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.”