I bow and approach her and talk to her a little, humbly, about her husband, since I was under his orders and saw him die.

She listens to me in dejected inattention.

She is elsewhere.

She says to me at last, "I had a memorial service since it's usual." Then she maintains a silence which means "There's nothing to be said, just as there's nothing to be done." In face of that emptiness I understand the crime that Marcassin committed in letting himself be killed for nothing but the glory of dying.
* * * * * *.