As we seated ourselves at the table M. Gilbert asked:
“What time is Lieutenant Limberg’s funeral?”
“Three o’clock, Doctor,” replied the faithful Augustus; “an infantry
platoon will come from his own regiment, which is at the moment leaving
the firing line and is billeted at Morcourt.”
“That’s right; send for Bénezech.”
And we began to enjoy the piquancy of a cucumber salad. September was
fading slowly, but the furnace on the Somme was getting ever fiercer.
The roar of the cannon seemed to fill the immensity of the heavens,
as if a great tragedy was happening in the heart of the world. We
were slightly stupefied through having spent many nights without
sleep--nights passed in trying to stem the torrent of blood, and save
some of the wreckage that swept down with it.
Lieutenant Limberg was one of the saddest cases: for two weeks we tried
to drag him out of the swirling eddy, when, all of a sudden, he sank
rapidly, attacked by virulent meningitis, stammering and uttering aloud
fantastic things, which gave his death a monstrous atmosphere of comedy.
Nothing gives greater offence or greater pain than to witness the
torture and delirium suffered by men injured in the brain. How many
times have I wished, when confronted with these terrible sights, that
our indifferent rulers should be forced to look at them! But it is
useless insisting on this. If people have no imagination, they can
never learn. I had better go on with my tale.
We were struggling with a tough piece of beef when Bénezech came in.
The Abbé Bénezech, a second-grade hospital orderly, combined various
functions, including those of a secretary and chaplain. He was a plump,
slow-witted man, with a formidable jaw. He grew a large unkempt beard,
and he badly felt the want of those cares and attentions which a
devoted flock had showered on him. Much too holy a person to attach any
importance to cares of the toilette, he had gradually degenerated into
a slovenly old man. But it was with patience that he waited for his
return to the sweet amenities of his living.
“Bénezech,” said M. Gilbert, rather familiarly, “what time do you bury
Lieutenant Limberg?”
“Three o’clock, sir.”
“The body has been taken out?”
“It should be in the mortuary shed.”
“Good! Was the lieutenant a Catholic?”
“Oh! yes; he most certainly was, sir. Thank God! He took the sacrament
yesterday.”
“Then everything is all right. Thank you, Bénezech.”
The chaplain went out. Relapsing again into our somnolent state, we
returned to our unappetising dish of vermicelli. As we were finishing,
an orderly came in and handed a card to M. Gilbert.
“The officer,” he added, “insists on seeing you at once.”
M. Gilbert repeatedly looked at the card with the strained attention of
a man who feels he is falling asleep.
“Oh! well,” he sighed; “show him in.”
And he added, turning towards us:
“Second Lieutenant David? Do you know him? You don’t?”
The Second Lieutenant was already at the door. Over his frizzly hair
he wore the small cap distinctive of the light infantry. He had big
lips, a faint, twisted moustache, the magnificent dark eyes of a Jewish
trader, a hint of corpulence, short fat hands.
“Monsieur,” he said, “my battalion is going up the line, and I’m taking
advantage of my passing here to get permission to see one of your
patients--Lieutenant Limberg, a friend of mine.”
M. Gilbert, who had rather an expressive little nose, showed by a
convulsive movement of that organ that he was much upset.
“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.”
M. Gilbert was a stubborn, explosive man, given to violent reactions.
He seemed to forget the heat, his exhaustion, and his digestion. He
began to throw little pellets of bread-crumbs wildly all over the room.
He had the intense, expectant air of a cartridge the fuse of which
has been set alight. Bénezech came to an abrupt stop at the door,
overwhelmed by the might of the doctor’s vocal organs, which left no
one in doubt as to what he felt.
“Ah! it’s you, is it? A fine mess you were going to get me in!”
“Doctor!”
“Listen! Lieutenant Limberg was a Jew, and you were going to give him a
Catholic funeral.”
“A Jew!”
“Yes; I say a Jew!”
The priest smiled, supremely incredulous.
“He was not a Jew, Doctor, because I administered the sacrament to him
yesterday again.”
M. Gilbert stopped short, like a horse who shies at a wheelbarrow. Then
he whispered absently:
“Then you don’t believe a word I say!”
“Oh, Doctor!” protested the priest, and he raised his hands, the palms
outwards, with an unction that was surprising in a soldier who arranged
his putties so dapperly in corkscrew fashion from his ankles.
“Yes, you may quite well have given him the sacrament,” said M.
Gilbert; “but what did he have to say in the matter?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what he could say,” interrupted Augustus, “when,
as you know, for the last ten days he has been quite delirious.”
“That’s true,” remarked M. Gilbert. “What have you got to say to that,
Bénezech?”
“I don’t know what to think, Doctor; but I can’t believe that a young
man as well educated as Lieutenant Limberg was not a Catholic. He took
the sacrament twice with me.”
“That may be; but did he tell you he was a Catholic?”
“But, Doctor, how could I insult him by asking him, especially when he
was in such a sad state. Besides, he came here wearing crosses on his
neck. I gave him several myself, which he willingly took.”
“Evidently there is something wrong,” said M. Gilbert. “You tell me
that Limberg was a Catholic; well, we have just been told that he was
Jewish. You had better send first for the rabbi of the division. Then,
to make sure, send me a despatch-rider from Limberg’s battalion. We
shall find out from them.”
Bénezech went out, raising his hands several times, his fingers spread
apart, looking perplexed.
“Let’s go to the mortuary tent,” said M. Gilbert, getting up from the
table.
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.
“What!” said M. Gilbert. “The service? As you please--get ready as much
as you like. I have my own idea now.”
Our devoted Augustus, who had left us for a few minutes, came back with
a packet of envelopes.
“I have been looking into the private correspondence of the lieutenant.
I find nothing conclusive, except perhaps this postcard, signed
by a Mr. Blumenthal, who calls Lieutenant Limberg ‘his cousin.’
Blumenthal--that’s a Jewish name.”
“Perhaps so,” said M. Gilbert; “but I don’t mind now. I have my own
idea.”
“It is true,” said Augustus hesitatingly, “that you could still--have
the coffin opened.”
“No! you mustn’t think of it!” M. Gilbert firmly replied; “and I
repeat, I have my own idea. Let’s go back to our work.”
We returned then to work; and that lasted about two and a half hours.
Then the orderly reappeared.
“Monsieur, the Jewish chaplain wants to see you.”
“I’m coming,” he said.
He put on his four-striped _képi_, took off his overalls, and
disappeared.
Looking through the window, I saw the rabbi of the division arriving.
He got out of a pedlar’s cart drawn by a crook-kneed mule. With his
black skull-cap, his flowing beard, his long coat, his cross-hilted
stick, his tall bent figure in the distance, he seemed to me like the
Polish Jews one reads of in popular novels. He appeared a man of mature
age, and got off the step with the dignity of a patriarch.
My curiosity was aroused, and I went out to see what was going to
happen. Twenty steps from the cart, in the bend of an avenue, I again
saw the rabbi, without at first recognising him: his beard was black,
rather frizzly, he had a very slight tendency to corpulence, his smile
was that of an Assyrian god, and there was something in his looks of
the Eastern calm of the Mediterranean Sea.
I skirted a shed and found myself face to face with the doctor and the
Jewish chaplain. I saw at once that I had been twice mistaken. He was a
man of the world, not old at all, wearing pince-nez, with a studious,
attentive appearance, aloof and erudite--the “distinguished” air of a
university graduate. He spoke the rather cosmopolitan French of a man
who knows six or seven languages, but who has not perfectly mastered
the correct accent of any of them.
“Really, Doctor,” he was saying, “we have many Limbergs in the East. I
know several families.”
“I’m sure you do,” replied M. Gilbert courteously. “But I have finally
decided what to do. Will you come along now, sir?”
We walked slowly to the tent. As we got near, the ground vibrated with
the rapid tread of a small company on the march, and the infantry
platoon appeared. Some officers followed, a little distance off.
Everybody stopped before the tent, and we saw Bénezech coming out. Over
his jacket he had thrown an ancient surplice, which seemed to have
seen service not only in the present war, but in every war of the past
century.
“Gentlemen,” said the doctor rather emphatically, “an unfortunate
thing has happened. We cannot tell with certainty what was Lieutenant
Limberg’s religion. The information you have sent us would tend to show
he was Catholic.”
“A practising Catholic,” added Bénezech, taking advantage of a pause.
“May I ask you,” continued the doctor, “on what you base your judgment?”
The officers looked at one another, as if they had been caught unawares.
“Why!” said one of them, “he never told us he was a Jew.”
“But----”
“Oh! I have definite evidence,” said a captain: “he went to Mass
several times with me.”
“But, hang it!” said M. Gilbert to this obtuse soldier, “that proves
nothing. Why! I go myself to Mass sometimes.... It’s true,” he added,
“I’m not a Jew. As for Limberg: to-day I saw one of his intimate
friends, who informed me that the lieutenant held the Jewish faith.”
Another pause intervened. The soldiers had piled arms in the avenue.
All present seemed perplexed and hesitating. The two priests had not
looked at one another yet, and seemed to be examining the uniform of
the officers with the greatest care.
At that moment two stretcher-bearers came out of the tent carrying the
coffin draped with the French colours. They took three paces forward,
and the priest and the rabbi found themselves suddenly one on each side
of the corpse.
“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, in a voice a prophet would use when
thinking of Solomon--“gentlemen, because of the uncertainty, I have
decided that Lieutenant Limberg shall be buried according to the rites
both of the Roman Catholic and of the Hebrew Church. There will then
be no possibility of a mistake being made; at most, one superfluous
service. We know that God recognises his own. These gentlemen will
proceed in turn. I believe I am doing a wise and just thing.”
The officers nodded their heads, without betraying what they thought.
The two priests, for the first time, looked at one another. They looked
at each other over the coffin, and bowed as if they had only just
arrived. Moved by the same impulse, they both affected a curious smile;
but their eyes had no share in it. They confronted each other like two
members of a family who have a feud of centuries behind them, and who
meet in the presence of a man of the world.
Between them, the stake was, not a soul, but a box containing a stiff
body, distorted by a death-agony of ten days--a box wrapped in a
symbolic shroud which a light breeze ruffled.
The two priests looked at one another with interest for one long
moment. On one side, the country priest, with an ungainly peasant
build: on the other the cultured and cosmopolitan rabbi, with the
sophisticated smile, old as the Bible.
“Really,” whispered Augustus in my ear--“really, Bénezech has done it
often enough in his time; he might let the other have a chance.”
“You be quiet!” said M. Gilbert, who had overheard him. “You are a fool
to talk like that. This is no laughing matter.”
Bénezech was just very slightly shrugging his shoulders; he lowered his
eyes and stammered:
“Monsieur, if Lieutenant Limberg was really of the Hebrew faith, I
would prefer to withdraw.”
“Do as you think best, Bénezech,” said M. Gilbert.
The rabbi continued to smile. He had the patient look of a believer who
knows that the Messiah once failed to appear at the appointed time,
and that one must continue to expect him for thousands of years again.
“Then,” said Bénezech, quite low, “I withdraw, Doctor.”
He made a few steps, and we heard him murmur as he withdrew:
“The chief thing is that he should receive the sacrament. And he
has--twice.”
The rabbi was still smiling, as if he was thinking: “As for me, I
remain.”
M. Gilbert made a sign. Commands rang out, and everybody stood at the
salute.