“I have been looking into the private correspondence of the lieutenant. I find nothing conclusive, except perhaps this postcard, signed by a Mr. Blumenthal, who calls Lieutenant Limberg ‘his cousin.’ Blumenthal--that’s a Jewish name.” “Perhaps so,” said M. Gilbert; “but I don’t mind now. I have my own idea.” “It is true,” said Augustus hesitatingly, “that you could still--have the coffin opened.” “No! you mustn’t think of it!” M. Gilbert firmly replied; “and I repeat, I have my own idea. Let’s go back to our work.” We returned then to work; and that lasted about two and a half hours. Then the orderly reappeared. “Monsieur, the Jewish chaplain wants to see you.” “I’m coming,” he said. He put on his four-striped _képi_, took off his overalls, and disappeared. Looking through the window, I saw the rabbi of the division arriving. He got out of a pedlar’s cart drawn by a crook-kneed mule. With his black skull-cap, his flowing beard, his long coat, his cross-hilted stick, his tall bent figure in the distance, he seemed to me like the Polish Jews one reads of in popular novels. He appeared a man of mature age, and got off the step with the dignity of a patriarch. My curiosity was aroused, and I went out to see what was going to happen. Twenty steps from the cart, in the bend of an avenue, I again saw the rabbi, without at first recognising him: his beard was black, rather frizzly, he had a very slight tendency to corpulence, his smile was that of an Assyrian god, and there was something in his looks of the Eastern calm of the Mediterranean Sea. I skirted a shed and found myself face to face with the doctor and the Jewish chaplain. I saw at once that I had been twice mistaken. He was a man of the world, not old at all, wearing pince-nez, with a studious, attentive appearance, aloof and erudite--the “distinguished” air of a university graduate. He spoke the rather cosmopolitan French of a man who knows six or seven languages, but who has not perfectly mastered the correct accent of any of them. “Really, Doctor,” he was saying, “we have many Limbergs in the East. I know several families.” “I’m sure you do,” replied M. Gilbert courteously. “But I have finally decided what to do. Will you come along now, sir?” We walked slowly to the tent. As we got near, the ground vibrated with the rapid tread of a small company on the march, and the infantry platoon appeared. Some officers followed, a little distance off. Everybody stopped before the tent, and we saw Bénezech coming out. Over his jacket he had thrown an ancient surplice, which seemed to have seen service not only in the present war, but in every war of the past century. “Gentlemen,” said the doctor rather emphatically, “an unfortunate thing has happened. We cannot tell with certainty what was Lieutenant Limberg’s religion. The information you have sent us would tend to show he was Catholic.” “A practising Catholic,” added Bénezech, taking advantage of a pause.