When the overwork incident to such a life forced him to take a little repose, he wandered back to his home like a soul in pain.  It was in vain that his parents and his two sisters—­whom he called his “kids” as if he were their elder—­exhausted their ingenuity to amuse him.  This home he loved so much, which he left so recently, and returned to so happily, bringing with him his young fame, no longer sufficed him.  Though he was so comfortable there, yet on clear days the house stifled him.  On such days he seemed like a school child caught in some fault:  a little more and he would have condemned himself.  Then his sister Yvonne, who had understood the situation, made a bargain with him.

“What is it you miss here at home?”

“Something you cannot give me.  Or rather, yes, you can give it to me.  Promise me you will.”

“Surely, if it will make you happy.”

“I shall be the happiest of men.”

“Then it’s granted in advance.”

“Very well, this is it:  every morning you must examine the weather.  If it is bad, you will let me sleep.”

“And if it is fine?”

“If it is fine, you will wake me up.”

His sister was afraid to ask more, as she guessed how he would use a fine day.  As she was silent, he pretended to pout with that cajoling manner he could assume, and which fascinated everybody.

“You won’t do it?  I could not stay home:  c’est plus fort que moi.”

“But, I promise.”

And to keep him at home until he should be cured, more or less, the young girl opened her window every morning and inspected the sky, secretly hoping to find it thickly covered with clouds.

“Clouds, waiting over there, motionless, on the edge of the horizon, what are you waiting for?  Will you stand idle and let me awaken my brother, who is resting?”

The clouds being indifferent, the sleeper had to be awakened.  He dressed hastily, with a smile at the transparent sky, and soon reached Vauciennes by automobile, where he called for his machine, mounted, ascended, flew, hunted the enemy, and returned to Compiegne for luncheon.

“And you can leave us like that?” remonstrated his mother.  “Why, this is your holiday.”

“Yes, the effort to leave is all the greater.”

“Well?—­”

“I like the effort, Maman.”

His Antigone forced herself to keep her bargain with him.  The sun never shone above the forest in vain, but nevertheless she detested the sun.  What a strange Romeo this boy would have made!  Without the least doubt he would have charged Juliet to wake him to go to battle, and would never have forgiven her for confounding the lark and the nightingale.