Night had fallen. The door opened and M. Poisson, accompanied by another officer, appeared with a lantern. He seemed calm and replete, like a man who has dined well.
“You are an idiot,” he said to me. “Why couldn’t you see that this was the body of Cuirassier Cuvelier?”
“But, sir——”
“Oh, shut up! It’s Cuirassier Cuvelier.”
Coming up to the table, he noted the size of the corpse and exclaimed:
“Of course! He’s tall enough to be a cuirassier. You see, Perrin, Cuvelier was brought in the day before yesterday. According to the register, he was not taken out. As he is no longer under treatment, he is dead, and this must be he. That’s clear.”
“Obviously,” said Perrin, “it’s he right enough.”
“Yes; don’t you agree?” replied M. Poisson. “It’s Cuvelier; that is quite plain. Poor devil! Now we can go to bed....”
Then he turned towards me:
“You!—you will put him in the coffin, and stick on the lid: ‘Cuvelier, Edouard, 9th Cuirassiers.’ And then, you mind! no more pranks of this kind.”