She saw that Alice had been crying and envied her the reality of her sorrow. When the time for departure came, as her friend went to the hall to help her on with her furs, she took advantage of their being alone to throw her arms round her neck, and at last giving way to the grief which she had choked back all the evening she whispered a few wild words, which were understood at once. “My poor Alice! What cowards we have been! Oh, why can we not be allowed to mourn for our dead this evening? Our lives belonged to them, and we denied it. Let us weep for them and for our dull existence which might have been so bright!” “Yes,” said Alice, “sorrow itself is more to be desired than the fate that is ours.” CHAPTER II THE POLICEMAN’S MESSAGE The discussion at the Café National at Cognin had been long and animated. When the telegram from the Minister of War had been brought to the town-hall, the municipal schoolmaster was on the doorstep dismissing his pupils. He took the envelope from the hands of the messenger, who was puffing out his cheeks to make his importance felt. “Official and post free! For the Mayor.” “Give it to me,” said the schoolmaster cautiously. And he immediately tore open the envelope, to show the messenger who was the real head of the community. He read the words twice aloud, with the Minister’s name at the bottom: “The Mayor, Cognin, near Chambéry. Inform Guibert family immediately decease of Commander Guibert while defending Timmimun, Algiers. Shot through forehead after repulsing assault.” He did not grasp it the first time he read it because, taking everything to himself as most people do, he expected to discover something of a personal nature in this government communication, perhaps the exemption of his son, who had just drawn his lot and was trying to escape military service. His disappointment prevailed over his pity. After having told his wife and his deputy about the news, he put on his hat and ran over to the Café National, kept by Mayor Simon himself. The latter was the successor to the post to Dr. Guibert, who had been excluded from the Corporation a short time before his death, the very year that he had gratuitously attended almost all the population when attacked by typhoid fever. He was a country lawyer, an intemperate boaster, who drank with all his customers and treated his bar as a political committee-room. Ignorant and incapable, but genial-hearted, he left all his duties to the schoolmaster, who was filled with false teachings and who dazzled him by his socialistic and anti-militarist theories which he culled from pernicious propagandist pamphlets. In public he treated him condescendingly, but he obeyed him humbly at the town-hall. “Well, Master,” he cried as he saw him come in, “you have forgotten your ferule!” Proud of knowing this rare word, he used it on every occasion to poke fun at his assistant.