"That last man," said Aurelle, "is a polytechnician."
The padre asked what that was.
"A polytechnician is a man who believes that all beings, alive or dead, can be precisely defined and submitted to an algebraic calculation. A polytechnician puts, on the same plane, victory, a tempest, and love. I knew one who, commanding a fortress and having to draw up some orders in case of aerial attack, began thus: 'The Fortress of X—— will be attacked by an aerial engine when a vertical line from the engine to the earth finds the centre of the fortification,' and so on."
"Do not abuse the Polytechnic, Aurelle," said the doctor. "It is the most original of your institutions and the best. The personal cult of Napoleon is so well preserved that each year France presents two hundred Lieutenant Bonapartes to the astonished Government."
"Go on translating, messiou," said the colonel.
"D.A.D.R.T. to the Superintendent.
"This does not concern me but a division that is resting. You must address your claim to the A.G. by the intermediary of the French Mission."
(Signed.)
(Seal.)
"Superintendent —— to the Base Commandant G.H.Q.