The Second Lieutenant was already at the door. Over his frizzly hair he wore the small cap distinctive of the light infantry. He had big lips, a faint, twisted moustache, the magnificent dark eyes of a Jewish trader, a hint of corpulence, short fat hands. “Monsieur,” he said, “my battalion is going up the line, and I’m taking advantage of my passing here to get permission to see one of your patients--Lieutenant Limberg, a friend of mine.” M. Gilbert, who had rather an expressive little nose, showed by a convulsive movement of that organ that he was much upset. “Give the lieutenant a chair,” he began, with the calm good sense of a man who knows how to break bad news. Then he proceeded: “My dear friend, the news I have to give you of Lieutenant Limberg is very sad: the unfortunate man had a serious wound in the skull, and----” “He is dead?” asked the officer, in a strangled voice. “Yes, he is dead. We are burying him to-day at three o’clock.” Second Lieutenant David remained for some time without moving. A nervous twitch began to work one side of his face. He looked stunned, and wiped his temples, that suddenly began to sweat profusely. We showed our respect for this evident pain. In a moment or two he got up, saluted, and was about to take leave of us. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “he was my best friend....” In an absent way he gave each of us his plump clammy hand to shake, and he was going out, when he stopped on the doorstep. “One word more, Doctor. My friend Limberg was a Jew--I am too--I thought it was better to tell you....” He was gone. A short silence intervened, then M. Gilbert began to strike the table with the handle of his knife--a succession of rapid knocks. “What did he say? Limberg a Jew? It’s really too much! Call Bénezech.” M. Gilbert was a stubborn, explosive man, given to violent reactions. He seemed to forget the heat, his exhaustion, and his digestion. He began to throw little pellets of bread-crumbs wildly all over the room. He had the intense, expectant air of a cartridge the fuse of which has been set alight. Bénezech came to an abrupt stop at the door, overwhelmed by the might of the doctor’s vocal organs, which left no one in doubt as to what he felt. “Ah! it’s you, is it? A fine mess you were going to get me in!” “Doctor!” “Listen! Lieutenant Limberg was a Jew, and you were going to give him a Catholic funeral.” “A Jew!” “Yes; I say a Jew!” The priest smiled, supremely incredulous. “He was not a Jew, Doctor, because I administered the sacrament to him yesterday again.” M. Gilbert stopped short, like a horse who shies at a wheelbarrow. Then he whispered absently: “Then you don’t believe a word I say!” “Oh, Doctor!” protested the priest, and he raised his hands, the palms outwards, with an unction that was surprising in a soldier who arranged his putties so dapperly in corkscrew fashion from his ankles.