Isabelle was the first to speak, and it was to cast doubts on the truth of the story.
“But it is not possible! Last year we might have believed you. He was taking part in the Moureau Expedition to Africa. He was travelling in unknown and dangerous countries. But he came back safe and sound, and famous as well. Now he is commander and an officer of the Legion of Honour at thirty-two. He is our great man. You are all jealous of him, so you think you will just get rid of him.”
She spoke with animation, turning from right to left in her chair, as if inviting all the guests to witness her anger. On Clément’s unhappy remark she had looked at Alice and saw the blood leave her cheeks as though she were dying. This mortal pallor extended even to her hands, which shook nervously, hardly distinguishable from the white cloth. Isabelle had immediately turned the attention on herself with her hasty words.
Clément made a slight gesture.
“No, he is dead. I admire him as much as you do, but he is dead.” And he repeated this word, which should never be spoken in a dining-room.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake do be quiet,” murmured Madame Orlandi, who had just noticed that they were thirteen at table, counting twice over in the hope that she was mistaken. Solemnly Mademoiselle de Songeon exclaimed: “May God rest his soul in peace.”
“Did he die in France?” asked M. Dulaurens. “The Expedition came back a month or two ago.”
M. d’Amberlard, quite unmoved, was enjoying a truffle that he kept on his plate so as to reserve its taste to the last, and M. de Lavernay kept his eyes fixed on Isabelle’s corsage as she bent forward.
M. de Marthenay put down his glass, which he kept emptying constantly.
“I met the Commander,” he said, “scarcely three weeks ago. He was getting out at the station. I went up to him but he seemed not to know me.”