"Indeed? I did not hear of it."
Ten minutes after, the Rabbi Rose came in to have a glass put in his watch.
"Who is dead?" asked Monsieur Goulden.
"Poor old Standard-bearer."
"What! Father Féral?"
"Yes, near an hour ago. Father Desmarets and several others tried to comfort him; at last he asked them to read to him the last letter of his son George, the commandant of dragoons, in which he says that next spring he hoped to embrace his father with a colonel's epaulettes. As the old man heard this, he tried to rise, but fell back with his head upon his knees. That letter had broken his heart."
Monsieur Goulden made no remark on the news.
"Here is your watch, Monsieur Rose," said he, handing it back to the rabbi; "it is twelve sous."
Monsieur Rose departed, and we finished our dinner in silence.