As the Admiral and his companion approached the little group of
officials who were apparently waiting for them, the old naval officer
whispered to Jacques de Wissant, using for the first time the familiar
expression, "_mon ami_," "Do not forget, _mon ami_, to thank the
harbour-master and the pilot. They have had a very difficult task, and
they will expect your commendation." Jacques de Wissant said the words required of him. And then, at the last
moment, just as he was on the point of going down the steps leading to
the flat-bottomed boat in which they were to be rowed to the pontoon,
there arose an angry discussion. The harbour-master had, it seemed,
promised the representatives of two Paris newspapers that they should be
present when the submarine was first opened. But the Admiral stiffly asserted his supreme authority. "In such matters
I can allow no favouritism! It is doubtful if any bodies will be taken
out to-night, gentlemen, for the tide is already turning. I will see if
other arrangements can be made to-morrow. If any of you had been in the
harbour of Bizerta when the _Lutin_ was raised, you would now thank me
for not allowing you to view the sight which we may be about to see." And the weary, disappointed special correspondents, who had spent long
days watching for this one hour, realized that they would have to
content themselves with describing what could be seen from the quays. *       *       *       *       *

It will, however, surprise no one familiar with the remarkable
enterprise of the modern press, when it is recorded that by far the most
accurate account of what occurred during the hour that followed was
written by a cosmopolitan war correspondent, who had had the good
fortune of making Dr. Tarnier's acquaintance during the dull fortnight
of waiting. He wrote:

    None of those who were there will ever forget what they saw last
    night in the harbour of Falaise. The scene, illumined by the searchlight of a destroyer, was at
    once sinister, sombre, and magnificent. Below the high, narrow
    pontoon, on the floor of the harbour, lay the wrecked submarine;
    and those who gazed down at the _Neptune_ felt as though they
    were in the presence of what had once been a sentient being done
    to death by some huge Goliath of the deep. Dr. Tarnier, the chief medical officer of the port--a man who is
    beloved and respected by the whole population of Falaise--stood
    ready to begin his dreadful task. I had ascertained that he had
    obtained permission to go down alone into the hold of death--an
    exploration attended with the utmost physical risk. He was clad
    in a suit of india-rubber clothing, and over his arm was folded
    a large tarpaulin sheet lined with carbolic wool, one of half a
    dozen such sheets lying at his feet. The difficult work of unsealing the conning tower was then
    proceeded with in the presence of Admiral de Saint Vilquier,
    whose prowess as a midshipman is still remembered by British
    Crimean veterans--and of the Mayor of Falaise, M. Jacques de
    Wissant. At last there came a guttural exclamation of "_Ça y est!_" and
    Dr. Tarnier stepped downwards, to emerge a moment later with the
    first body, obviously that of the gallant Commander Dupré, who
    was found, as it was expected he would be, in the conning tower. Once more the doctor's burly figure disappeared, once more he
    emerged, tenderly bearing a slighter, lighter burden, obviously
    the boyish form of Lieutenant Paritot, who was found close to
    Commander Dupré. The tide was rising rapidly, but two more bodies--this time with
    the help of a webbed band cleverly designed by Dr. Tarnier with
    a view to the purpose--were lifted from the inner portion of the
    submarine. The four bodies, rather to the disappointment of the large crowd
    which had gradually gathered on the quays, were not taken
    directly to the shore, to the great hall where Falaise is to
    mourn her dead sons; one by one they were reverently conveyed,
    by the Admiral's orders, to a barge which was once used as a
    hospital ward for sick sailors, and which is close to the mouth
    of the harbour. Thence, when all twelve bodies have been
    recovered--that is, in three or four days, for the work is only
    to be proceeded with at night,--they will be taken to the Salle
    d'Armes, there to await the official obsequies. On the morning following the night during which the last body was lifted
from within the _Neptune_, there ran a curious rumour through the
fishing quarter of the town. It was said that thirteen bodies--not
twelve, as declared the official report--had been taken out of the
_Neptune_. It was declared on the authority of one of the seamen--a
Gascon, be it noted--who had been there on that first night, that five,
not four, bodies had been conveyed to the hospital barge. But the rumour, though it found an echo in the French press, was not
regarded as worth an official denial, and it received its final quietus
on the day of the official obsequies, when it was at once seen that the
number of ammunition wagons heading the great procession was twelve. *       *       *       *       *

As long as tradition endures in the life of the town, Falaise will
remember the _Neptune_ funeral procession. Not only was every navy in
the world represented, but also every strand of that loosely woven human
fabric we civilized peoples call a nation. Through the long line of soldiers, each man with his arms reversed,
walked the official mourners, while from the fortifications there boomed
the minute gun. First the President of the French Republic, with, to his right, the
Minister of Marine; and close behind them the stiff, still vigorous,
figure of old Admiral de Saint Vilquier. By his side walked the Mayor of
Falaise--so mortally pale, so what the French call undone, that the
Admiral felt fearful lest his neighbour should be compelled to fall out. But Jacques de Wissant was not minded to fall out. The crowd looking on, especially the wives of those substantial citizens
of the town who stood at their windows behind half-closed shutters and
drawn blinds, stared down at the mayor with pitying concern. "He has a warm heart though a cold manner," murmured these ladies to one
another, "and just now, you know, he is in great anxiety, for his
wife--that beautiful Claire with whom he doesn't get on very well--is in
Italy, seriously ill of scarlet fever." "Yes, and as soon as this sad
ceremony is over, he will leave for the south--I hear that the President
has offered him a seat in his saloon as far as Paris." As the head of the procession at last stopped on the great parade ground
where the last honours were to be rendered to the lowly yet illustrious
dead, Jacques de Wissant straightened himself with an instinctive
gesture, and his lips began to move.