“And of God, too--was he not?” murmured the stricken mother. “Yes, of God too. I had to take command in his place. But his victory was complete. When I was able to come back to him they had carried him a few paces away, under a palm-tree. I bent over him in vain. Our Surgeon-Major looked sadly at me. He had already examined him. Our life together had made us like brothers. I loved him as you did. There I mourned him as you did, on your behalf. And I saw what you had not the sorry joy of seeing--the serenity that was his in death. It gave his face a look of everlasting peace. When I see him again in my memory I have only good and noble thoughts. You must know this, so that his memory may be the sweeter to you.” Jean was silent. Then he began again. “The evening before he had gone with me to my tent, before making his last round. It was a clear, starry night. We often talked about Savoy. He spoke to me about you and Mademoiselle Paule. He had seen you lately. He had no presentiment to sadden him, but he never had any fear of death. In the pocket of his tunic I found this letter, which I have brought you. It lay against his heart during its last beats.” Madame Guibert recognised her own handwriting. She raised her face, full of a mother’s anguish. When she could speak she asked: “He now rests in the peace of God. Jean, tell me, where have they buried him?” “In front of Timmimun, Madame. As he is the highest in rank, his tomb is placed between that of the commissariat officer’s on the right and the sergeant’s on the left. They were both killed in the same engagement. The men are buried at their feet.” Paule interrupted: “We have asked about the necessary steps for removing him to Chambéry. He will rest in our family vault near my father and my little sister Thérèse.” Jean looked at the girl. He knew they were not well off. In gentle accents, persuasive and yet commanding, he tried to dissuade them from this costly and useless plan. “Why do you insist on this return? The place of his death tells of the victory won. He is resting in his triumph. What tomb could be more fitting? How could he wish for a nobler monument?” “He will soon be forgotten there.” “You are wrong, Mademoiselle Paule. Every grave has its inscription. They are carefully looked after. As long as we keep a garrison at Timmimun, they will be honored. His bears his name, his rank, the two dates April 25th 1868 and February 19th 1901, and these three glorious words which sum up his career--‘Madagascar, Sahara, Timmimun.’ You must remember that they still honor in Algiers the tombs of those who were killed at the time of the conquest.” Madame Guibert sighed, and Paule after a moment’s reflection, during which Jean was able to study her face more at leisure, spoke again, as faithful as Antigone. “We should love to feel that my brother was near us, to be able to kneel on the stones which cover him.”