usted. But the strongest of
his comrades could not frighten him; on the contrary, he attacked these
by preference. The masters were often obliged to intervene and separate
the combatants. Guynemer would then straighten up like a cock, his eyes
sparkling and obtruding, and, unable to do more, would crush his
adversary with piquant and sometimes cutting words uttered in a dry,
railing voice."[9]

[Footnote 9: Unpublished notes by Abbe Chesnais.]

Talking, however, was not his forte, and his nervousness made him
sputter. His speech was vibrant, trenchant, like hammerstrokes, and he
said things to which there was no answer. He had a horror of discussion:
he was already all action.

This violence and frenzied action would have driven him to the most
unreasonable and dangerous audacity if they had not been counterbalanced
by his sense of honor. "He was one of those," wrote a comrade of
Guynemer's, M. Jean Constantin, now lieutenant of artillery, "for whom
honor is sacred, and must not be disregarded under any pretext; and in
his life, in his relations with his comrades, his candor and loyalty
were only equaled by his goodness. Often, in the midst of our games,
some dispute arose. Where are the friends who have never had a dispute?
Sometimes we were both so obstinate that we fought, but after that he
was willing to renounce the privilege of the last word. He never could
have endured bringing trouble upon his fellow-students. He never
hesitated to admit a fault; and, what is much better, once when one of
his comrades, who was a good student, had inadvertently made a foolish
mistake which might have lowered his marks, I saw Georges accuse himself
and take the punishment in his place. His comrade never knew anything
about it, for Georges did that sort of thing almost clandestinely, and
with the simplicity and modesty which were always the great charm of his
character."

This sense of honor he had drawn in with his mother's milk; and his
father had developed it in him. Everything about him indicated pride:
the upright carriage of his head, the glance of his black eyes which
seemed to pierce the objects he looked at. He loved the Stanislas
uniform which his father had worn before him, and which had been worn by
Gouraud and Baratier, whose fame was then increasing, and Rostand, then
in all the new glory of _Cyrano_ and _L'Aiglon_. He had an exact
appreciation of his own dignity. Though he listened attentively in
class, he wou