Guynemer who had flown over the Somme, Lorraine or Aisne battle-fields.
Indeed, his mastery was increasing with each fresh encounter, and with
his daring he cared little whether the enemy was gaining in numbers or
inventing unsuspected tactics. His victories of August 17 and 20 showed
him at his boldest best. Yet his comrades noticed that his nerves seemed
overstrained. He was not content with flying oftener and longer than the
others in quest of his game, but fretted if his Boche did not appear
precisely when he wanted him. When an enemy did not turn up where he was
expected, he made up his mind to seek him where he himself was not
expected, and he became accustomed to scouting farther and farther away
into dangerous zones. Was he tired of holding the door tight against
destiny, or feeling sure that destiny could not look in? Did it not
occur to him that his hour, whether near or not, was marked down?

Indeed, it is certain that the thought not only presented itself to him
sometimes, but was familiar. "At our last meeting," writes his
school-fellow of Stanislas days, Lieutenant Constantin, "I had been
struck by his melancholy expression, and yet he had just been victorious
for the forty-seventh time. 'I have been too lucky,' he said to me, 'and
I feel as if I must pay for it.' 'Nonsense,' I replied, 'I am absolutely
certain that nothing will happen to you.' He smiled as if he did not
believe me, but I knew that he was haunted by the idea, and avoided
everything that might uselessly consume a particle of his energy or
disturb his sang-froid, which he intended to devote entirely to Boche
hunting."[27]

[Footnote 27: Unpublished notes by J. Constantin.]

When had he ceased to think himself invincible? The reader no doubt
remembers how he recovered from his wound at Verdun, and the shock it
might have left, merely by flying and offering himself to the enemy's
fire with the firm resolve not to return it. Eight times he had been
brought down, and each time with full and prolonged consciousness of
what was happening. On many occasions he had come back to camp with
bullets in his machine, or in his combination. Yet these narrow escapes
never reacted on his imagination, damped his spirit, or diminished his
_furia_. But had he thought himself invincible? He believed in his star,
no doubt, but he knew he was only a man. One of his most intimate
friends, his rival in glory, the nearest to him since the loss of Dorme,
the one who