They looked at one another for a moment, understandingly, without saying a word. They were two old friends, two comrades-in-arms. Formerly a chaplain in the Army, Abbé de Lalonde was now chaplain to the Dames du Salut. As military chaplain, he had been attached to the regiment of guards of which Cartier de Chalmot had been colonel in 1870, and which, forming part of the division …, had been shut up in Metz with Bazaine’s army. The memory of these homeric, yet lamentable, weeks came back to the minds of these two friends every time they saw one another, and every time they made the same remarks. This time the chaplain began: “Do you remember, general, when we were in Metz, running short of medicine, of fodder, running short of salt? …” Abbé de Lalonde was the least sensual of men. He had hardly felt the want of salt for himself, but he had suffered much at not being able to give the men salt as he gave them tobacco, in little packets carefully wrapped up. And he remembered this cruel privation. “Ah! general, the salt ran short!” General Cartier de Chalmot replied: “They made up for it, to a certain extent, by mixing gunpowder with the food.” “All the same,” answered the chaplain, “war is a terrible thing.” Thus spoke this innocent friend of soldiers in the sincerity of his heart. But the general did not acquiesce in this condemnation of war. “Pardon me, my dear abbé! War is, of course, a cruel necessity, but one which provides for officers and men an opportunity of showing the highest qualities. Without war, we should still be ignorant of how far the courage and endurance of men can go.” And, very seriously, he added: “The Bible proves the lawfulness of war, and you know better than I how in it God is called Sabaoth—that is, the God of armies.” The abbé smiled with an expression of frank roguishness, displaying the three very white teeth which were all that remained to him. “Pooh! I don’t know Hebrew, not I. … And God has so many more beautiful names that I can dispense with calling him by that one. … Alas! general, what a splendid army perished under the command of that unhappy marshal! …” At these words, General Cartier de Chalmot began to say what he had already said a hundred times: “Bazaine! … Listen to me. Neglect of the regulations touching fortified towns, culpable hesitation in giving orders, mental reservations before the enemy. And before the enemy one ought to have no mental reservations … Capitulation in open country. … He deserved his fate. And then a scapegoat was needed.” “For my part,” answered the chaplain, “I should beware of ever saying a single word which might injure the memory of this unfortunate marshal. I cannot judge his actions. And it is certainly not my business to noise abroad even his indubitable shortcomings. For he granted me a favour for which I shall feel grateful as long as I live.” “A favour?” demanded the general. “He? To you?”