It was a disused tent where coffins were placed on biers ready for burial services.
Wrapped in an old flag, Limberg’s coffin had been placed on two boxes. A ray of sunlight broke obliquely across the shadow, revealing a glittering swarm of mosquitos. Some hens were pecking at the fine gravel. This place of death seemed like a haven of rest on the edge of the tempest of war.
An orderly came in, placed two candles on the table, lit them, and stood a crucifix between them.
“Damn!” muttered M. Gilbert between his teeth; “it’s very tiresome, all this fuss.”
As we were coming out of the place, we saw Bénezech and the despatch-rider. Bénezech’s beard seemed to bristle with triumph. With his fingers on his képi, he saluted as if he were pronouncing the benediction, and he said in a celestial voice:
“Information from the battalion, Doctor: Lieutenant Limberg was a Catholic.”
“Confound it all!” cried the doctor. “Have you a written note?”
“No,” replied the cyclist. “The officers only discussed the matter among themselves, and they said he was a Catholic. You will see them yourself presently: they are coming to the funeral with the infantry platoon.”
M. Gilbert stamped on the ground. He was very red, and the unruly movements of his nose showed that a decision was about to be made.
“Can I get ready for the service?” asked Bénezech, with the innocent and measured tone of a man who does not press home his victory.