“No, he is dead. I admire him as much as you do, but he is dead.” And he repeated this word, which should never be spoken in a dining-room. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake do be quiet,” murmured Madame Orlandi, who had just noticed that they were thirteen at table, counting twice over in the hope that she was mistaken. Solemnly Mademoiselle de Songeon exclaimed: “May God rest his soul in peace.” “Did he die in France?” asked M. Dulaurens. “The Expedition came back a month or two ago.” M. d’Amberlard, quite unmoved, was enjoying a truffle that he kept on his plate so as to reserve its taste to the last, and M. de Lavernay kept his eyes fixed on Isabelle’s corsage as she bent forward. M. de Marthenay put down his glass, which he kept emptying constantly. “I met the Commander,” he said, “scarcely three weeks ago. He was getting out at the station. I went up to him but he seemed not to know me.” “Probably because he didn’t want to,” Isabelle could not refrain from remarking. She hated Alice’s husband, who made persistent love to her when he had lost at cards and had nothing else to do. And to prevent any more allusions she added: “No doubt he has a contempt for officers who have resigned.” M. de Marthenay had left the army the year before. “He _had_ a contempt, you mean,” said Clément cruelly. He would not allow them to rob him of his dead, and when he had reconquered the general attention he gave a few details. “My brother-in-law is quite right,” he said. “Commander Guibert did come back to Savoy last month. He stayed two days with his mother and sister at Le Maupas and then returned to his barracks at Timmimun, in Southern Algiers.” “At the entrance to Touât,” explained the ex-dragoon, who since he left the army was exceeding keen about all military questions. “But General Lervières passed Timmimun to-day, so the Berbers and the Doui-Menia must have attacked him from the rear.” Young Dulaurens stuck his monocle in his eye and stared impertinently at Marthenay. “Armand,” said he, “I don’t recognise you. Have you gone in for strategy?” With another look at her friend’s bloodless face, Isabelle made a fresh interruption. “I do not understand. He had scarcely returned from crossing the Sahara, a trip which lasted eighteen months or two years, I don’t quite remember which. After these expeditions one generally has a long leave. Then he evidently took no rest? He went back at once to this expedition? Because, if he is dead, he must have been killed in battle.” Raising his eyebrows, Clément let his eyeglass fall. “When a man is a hero he is not one by halves. He asked for this post on account of the danger.” M. de Lavernay, bending towards his neighbor, whispered in her ear: “I like to see you get excited. Your cheeks color and your eyes flash.” But it was not at either her cheeks or her eyes that he was looking. The impatient Isabelle cut him short with that sharpness which marriage had not cured. “Do be quiet, you old sinner!” she cried.