The group was disappearing. I was contemplating the tips of my shoes. The registers weighed heavily on my arm, and I tried to understand—to understand it all, when a hand struck my shoulder.
“Well! you are not in the guard-room, my boy! Good! That’s right!”
Purple, apoplectic, the orderly officer looked at me furiously but there was also in his eyes a sad, pleading expression. He added:
“You make your complaint. You’ll see what’ll happen.”
I raised my eyes towards the hospital. A clock adorned its front.
Then, clicking my heels together, raising my right hand to the height of my képi, I replied quite simply:
“Sir, I am not going to complain. It is five minutes to twelve. At twelve I shall be in prison.”
The bulldog face relaxed. I thought he was going to thank me. He was finally content to mumble:
“That’s a good thing!”
He went away. I proceeded, without laughing, to the guard-room.