Every hour he came and glanced at the body, which was beginning slowly to decompose. He stared at it stolidly.
During the afternoon I had a moment’s rest while M. Poisson took his siesta. About six he came again, and I hardly recognised him. His hands were almost clean, he wore a white collar, his beard was trimmed, and his breath like that of a man who has just rinsed his mouth in vieux marc.
“What!” he said, “you haven’t yet closed down the German’s coffin! You are an incapable ass!”
“But, sir——”
“Hold your tongue! And write this inscription, and be quick!—‘An unknown German.’ D’you understand?”
M. Perrin had just come in. The two officers had one more look at the corpse.
“It’s obviously a Boche,” said M. Poisson.
“Yes; look at his fair hair.”
“Perrin, you ought to have thought of it sooner,” added the doctor.
The officers were about to go out, when M. Poisson turned round and said: