“Give the lieutenant a chair,” he began, with the calm good sense of a man who knows how to break bad news. Then he proceeded:
“My dear friend, the news I have to give you of Lieutenant Limberg is very sad: the unfortunate man had a serious wound in the skull, and——”
“He is dead?” asked the officer, in a strangled voice.
“Yes, he is dead. We are burying him to-day at three o’clock.”
Second Lieutenant David remained for some time without moving. A nervous twitch began to work one side of his face. He looked stunned, and wiped his temples, that suddenly began to sweat profusely. We showed our respect for this evident pain. In a moment or two he got up, saluted, and was about to take leave of us.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “he was my best friend....”
In an absent way he gave each of us his plump clammy hand to shake, and he was going out, when he stopped on the doorstep.
“One word more, Doctor. My friend Limberg was a Jew—I am too—I thought it was better to tell you....”
He was gone. A short silence intervened, then M. Gilbert began to strike the table with the handle of his knife—a succession of rapid knocks.
“What did he say? Limberg a Jew? It’s really too much! Call Bénezech.”