“Nothing at all, Mossinspecteurjral.”
M. Briavoine, when asked in his turn, appeared to ponder, and then replied that everything was as he wished.
Professor Proby, recovering from his coma, hastened to stammer:
“Ha! here everything is all right, Mossinspecteurjral.”
I remembered something M. Briavoine had said. I seemed to see him again buttoning his linen coat and saying, “What have I to gain?” Then I looked, greatly astonished, at his attentive face and respectful bearing. In the same way I observed his colleagues and, thinking of these men who had nothing to gain from their effacement and who had given way so completely, so hopelessly, I experienced a great admiration for them, and I had an insight into the meaning of discipline. But the perceptions of the intellect are often betrayed by other less noble impulses, for at the very same moment I could hardly restrain an inclination to laugh.
M. Dufrêne had stopped in the middle of a dormitory. Fifty wounded men were lying there: some talked in low voices, others groaned from time to time, and others again were delirious. The Inspector-General clapped his hands: at once the silence was complete. The least disciplined race in the world stopped moaning; they ceased from their delirium.
“Soldiers!” he said in a formidable voice, “the Government of the Republic has sent me to you to see how you are looked after. See how the Government of the Republic cares for you.”
From one end of the room to the other heads were raised, necks were stretched, and all those who had any breath left in them replied together:
“Thank you, General.”
M. Dufrêne was going out. Behind him, the least disciplined race in the world followed in good order down a staircase leading to the gardens.