I note a flighty ring on a finger, a birthmark on the skin, an old scar, sometimes even tattoes, and finally one of the things which man does not leave behind him: his poor grey hair, the lines of his face, the relic of a smile around his eyes, more often traces of terror. And all that sets my mind thinking. From their bodies I can read their history: I imagined how much they had worked with those arms, the many things they had seen with their eyes, how they had kissed with those lips, how proud they must have been of their moustache and their beard, on which now the lice were crawling, away from the cold, dead flesh. I think of these things as I sew up the corpses in the sacking; and the emotion I feel rather startles me, because mingled with my misery is a feeling of pleasure. But I am wandering off into philosophy. Not being a philosopher, I haven’t the right to bore you. I think I was speaking to you about Cuirassier Cuvelier. Well, let me return to the story. It takes us back to the May offensives. I assure you, I wasn’t idle in those days. What numbers of dead passed through my hands! The poor unfortunate widows and mothers need have no anxiety: in my way, I did my duty. All of them were taken away with their mouths tightly closed with a chin-cloth, arms crossed on their bodies--that is, of course, if they still possessed mouths and arms--and I carefully wrapped them in the sacking. I do not mention their eyes: it was beyond my power to close them. It is too late, you know, by the time they arrive at the mortuary. Oh, I took good care of my dead! One day they brought me one with no identification mark at all. His face was crushed in; bandages everywhere on his limbs, but no ticket, no disc on his wrist, nothing at all. I placed him on one side, and the doctor was informed. In a moment the door opened and M. Poisson came in. His deportment was always good after he had some drink; you could tell it too from his manner of coughing and spitting and fingering his cross, for, you know, he was an Officer of the Legion of Honour. “You have one too many here,” he said. “Sir, I don’t know whether there is one too many, but there is a body here without an identification card.” “It isn’t only that,” replied M. Poisson, “I see you have eight bodies here. Just wait a moment....” He took out of his pocket a rumpled piece of paper, looking at it from every possible angle, then he shouted: “Seven! Seven only! You ought only to have seven! You fool! Who brought this corpse here? I don’t want it. It’s not on the list. Where in the world did it come from?” I began to tremble, and replied stammering: “I didn’t notice which section brought it here.” “Ah! You didn’t notice! And what do you think I’m going to do with it? Now, what is the man’s name?” “But, sir, that’s just what I want to know. He hasn’t been identified.”