“You see, Perrin,” said the doctor, “in order to be quite sure, I am looking in every hut to see if a Cuvelier may not be anywhere. And I can’t find a man of that name. Of course, I only look where the seriously wounded are quartered. I am not a fool. If he is dead, he must have been seriously wounded.” “Obviously,” said M. Perrin. After we had been to all the huts, M. Poisson held himself very proudly, causing many folds in the loose flesh under his chin, and he concluded by saying: “It’s Cuvelier, sure enough. Now you see what it is to have order. With me it’s not the same as with Ponce and Vieillon, who are awful bunglers.” “Perhaps,” M. Perrin said, “you would be wise to inquire among the lightly wounded.” “Oh! well, if you think so,” said M. Poisson, rather indifferently. And we proceeded to the huts of the “quick removals.” We went in, and asked the usual question. No one replied. On going out, M. Poisson repeated: “Cuvelier isn’t here?” Then suddenly we heard some one shouting: “Yes; Cuvelier, present!” And a tall, curly-headed man jumps off a bed, raising a hand that was very lightly bandaged.... Things take a tragic turn. M. Poisson turns dark purple, like a man stricken with apoplexy. He spits two or three times. He smacks his thighs, and says in a choking voice: “God! he must be alive then!” “I am Cuvelier,” the soldier remarks. “Cuvelier, Edouard?” “Yes; Edouard!” “Of the 9th Cuirassiers?” “That’s right: of the ‘9th Cuir’!” M. Poisson goes out like a madman, followed by M. Perrin and myself. He goes to the mortuary, and he stands before the coffin, dribbles on his tunic, and says quite shortly: “If it’s not Cuvelier, we have to begin all over again.” * * * * * Ah, sir! what a day it was! The offensive was going on during that time. The dead were filling the place which had been reserved for them. But the very life of the service seemed to have been held up. You have seen ships come to a stop in the middle of a river and holding up all the traffic? Well, this unknown corpse gave that impression. It was stranded right across our work and began to upset everything, beginning with the health of the unfortunate M. Poisson, who suggested taking sick leave. Every hour he came and glanced at the body, which was beginning slowly to decompose. He stared at it stolidly. During the afternoon I had a moment’s rest while M. Poisson took his siesta. About six he came again, and I hardly recognised him. His hands were almost clean, he wore a white collar, his beard was trimmed, and his breath like that of a man who has just rinsed his mouth in _vieux marc_. “What!” he said, “you haven’t yet closed down the German’s coffin! You are an incapable ass!” “But, sir----” “Hold your tongue! And write this inscription, and be quick!--‘An unknown German.’ D’you understand?” M. Perrin had just come in. The two officers had one more look at the corpse.