When the officers had gone, I put Cuirassier Cuvelier in a coffin, and then I lay down for a few hours on my mattress.
The next morning I was preparing to nail down the coffin of Edouard Cuvelier, when I saw M. Poisson coming up once again. His face was not so calm as on the previous evening.
“Wait; don’t bury that man yet,” he said.
He walked round the coffin, and nibbled the end of a cigarette; he appeared indeed so uneasy that I knew at once he had not yet decided to thrust Cuvelier out into the abyss. It was not going to be done: the dead body was getting in the way and refused to be swallowed up. I don’t know whether M. Poisson had a high idea of his duty, or merely was afraid of complications; whatever it was, I sympathised greatly with him at that moment.
He turned towards me and, as he did not like to be alone, “Come along with me,” he said.
Off we went again, making the round of the huts.
“Hut No. 8?” began M. Poisson. “The seriously wounded are here, aren’t they? Is Cuirassier Cuvelier here?”
The men there made inquiries, and replied “No.”
We went on to the next.