“The evening before he had gone with me to my tent, before making his last round. It was a clear, starry night. We often talked about Savoy. He spoke to me about you and Mademoiselle Paule. He had seen you lately. He had no presentiment to sadden him, but he never had any fear of death. In the pocket of his tunic I found this letter, which I have brought you. It lay against his heart during its last beats.”
Madame Guibert recognised her own handwriting. She raised her face, full of a mother’s anguish. When she could speak she asked:
“He now rests in the peace of God. Jean, tell me, where have they buried him?”
“In front of Timmimun, Madame. As he is the highest in rank, his tomb is placed between that of the commissariat officer’s on the right and the sergeant’s on the left. They were both killed in the same engagement. The men are buried at their feet.”
Paule interrupted:
“We have asked about the necessary steps for removing him to Chambéry. He will rest in our family vault near my father and my little sister Thérèse.”
Jean looked at the girl. He knew they were not well off. In gentle accents, persuasive and yet commanding, he tried to dissuade them from this costly and useless plan.
“Why do you insist on this return? The place of his death tells of the victory won. He is resting in his triumph. What tomb could be more fitting? How could he wish for a nobler monument?”
“He will soon be forgotten there.”
“You are wrong, Mademoiselle Paule. Every grave has its inscription. They are carefully looked after. As long as we keep a garrison at Timmimun, they will be honored. His bears his name, his rank, the two dates April 25th 1868 and February 19th 1901, and these three glorious words which sum up his career—‘Madagascar, Sahara, Timmimun.’ You must remember that they still honor in Algiers the tombs of those who were killed at the time of the conquest.”