“I do not understand,” I answered.
“You understand very well—but the heroine of your story did not die as you said. Her husband killed her. Her husband, do you understand? But of course you know that—only you did not want to say so to my little girl. You were very wise—I was there, I heard every word—and I should not have allowed you to go on. One does not talk to a child about her mother’s unhappiness.”
My anger left me. Cernay was evidently crazy. He had suddenly imagined that he was Lord Burleigh. His experiments in aviation, which taxed too heavily his daring and presence of mind, possibly also, his disappointment and isolation, had unsettled his mind. In order not to provoke him, I decided to humour him.
“Follow me,” he commanded imperiously.
The prospect was not very reassuring. Night was falling and I did not care for a walk in the country with an individual who gave every evidence of being demented.
He led me, however, directly to the garden-like grave of Madame Cernay, whence the mingled fragrance of the flowers rose to us, though the gathering dusk obscured their colours. There, my companion became lost in his memories. Forgetting my presence and his own pride, he permitted at intervals a kind of wail of agony to escape him. Yet I was not greatly affected by this manifestation of despair, because, dreading some more dangerous happening, I devoted my attention to a close watch upon his movements. When he had grown calmer, he was to astonish me still more. We were walking back up the avenue through the night, when at last he decided to speak:
“I was at fault just now,” he said. “Forgive me. That story which you were telling my daughter—I don’t know where you found it.”
“In Tennyson,” I hastened to reply, in order to clear myself of my unknown offence.
“It caused me much pain.”
“You?” I asked.