On the table, temporarily shrouded in tent material, the unknown dead man was waiting his fate. Tanquerelle was completely drunk and was singing “The Missouri,”--not exactly the thing to do in the midst of corpses. I went and drew aside the shroud and looked at the ice-cold body. His smashed face was covered with linen bandages. A few locks of fair hair could be seen. As for the rest, just an ordinary body, like yours or mine, sir. Night had fallen. The door opened and M. Poisson, accompanied by another officer, appeared with a lantern. He seemed calm and replete, like a man who has dined well. “You are an idiot,” he said to me. “Why couldn’t you see that this was the body of Cuirassier Cuvelier?” “But, sir----” “Oh, shut up! It’s Cuirassier Cuvelier.” Coming up to the table, he noted the size of the corpse and exclaimed: “Of course! He’s tall enough to be a cuirassier. You see, Perrin, Cuvelier was brought in the day before yesterday. According to the register, he was not taken out. As he is no longer under treatment, he is dead, and this must be he. That’s clear.” “Obviously,” said Perrin, “it’s he right enough.” “Yes; don’t you agree?” replied M. Poisson. “It’s Cuvelier; that is quite plain. Poor devil! Now we can go to bed....” Then he turned towards me: “You!--you will put him in the coffin, and stick on the lid: ‘Cuvelier, Edouard, 9th Cuirassiers.’ And then, you mind! no more pranks of this kind.” When the officers had gone, I put Cuirassier Cuvelier in a coffin, and then I lay down for a few hours on my mattress. * * * * * The next morning I was preparing to nail down the coffin of Edouard Cuvelier, when I saw M. Poisson coming up once again. His face was not so calm as on the previous evening. “Wait; don’t bury that man yet,” he said. He walked round the coffin, and nibbled the end of a cigarette; he appeared indeed so uneasy that I knew at once he had not yet decided to thrust Cuvelier out into the abyss. It was not going to be done: the dead body was getting in the way and refused to be swallowed up. I don’t know whether M. Poisson had a high idea of his duty, or merely was afraid of complications; whatever it was, I sympathised greatly with him at that moment. He turned towards me and, as he did not like to be alone, “Come along with me,” he said. Off we went again, making the round of the huts. “Hut No. 8?” began M. Poisson. “The seriously wounded are here, aren’t they? Is Cuirassier Cuvelier here?” The men there made inquiries, and replied “No.” We went on to the next. M. Poisson began again: “Hut No. 7? Have you here a man named Cuvelier, of the 9th Cuirassiers?” “No, _Monsieur le médecin-chef_.” M. Poisson was delighted with his success. “Of course! They can’t have him, because he’s dead. I am doing this to satisfy my conscience. I’m made like that.” We met M. Perrin.