I followed too, bringing up the rear.
I was enveloped in the shadows of the stairs, and before my bewildered eyes interrogation marks began to dance multicoloured. They vanished, and I then imagined a theatre where men appeared in their turn, said what they had been taught, and arranged themselves in good and proper order, some to speak again, others to dance, some to carry heavy loads, and others to die. Across the top of the stage a word was engraved which I could not make out, but which suddenly became luminous when I heard the spectacled young man on my right whisper to his comrade:
“It is a convention—a great convention in the midst of all the other conventions of life. It’s very queer, but not more so than that which compels us to arrange the words of a conversation in such or such an order.”
We were now in the garden. The green and amber glow of late summer put an end to one’s dreams.
The inspector had grouped his audience and was saying:
“You, Coupé, I congratulate you heartily. And in so doing I am conscious of the real pleasure I am giving you.”
M. Dufrêne was making no mistake, for the excellent doctor felt so pleased indeed that he blushed to the roots of his white hair.
There were other congratulations too, and also criticisms. Those who had been praised were surrounded by courtiers. Those who had been blamed were humiliated and left alone. Thus Professor Proby could be seen withdrawing, alone and abashed, like a schoolboy sent into a corner.
M. Briavoine closed the door of the motor-car with his own hands. As the vehicle was about to start, the phenomenon of the salute was witnessed once more: left arms to the sides, right arms raised simultaneously.
The most undisciplined race in the world stiffened itself into the regulation attitude.