You know the rest: I passed four days and four nights there. It was in the middle of September. At that time the flower of the French army were accomplishing such deeds of valour that an immense feeling of gratitude seemed to stir the whole country from end to end. And it was in a prison that I was fated to offer these men my humble thanks.
During those four days I thought of many queer things. But of them I will tell you another time.
CUIRASSIER CUVELIER
The Cuvelier affair made a deep and lasting impression on me. M. Poisson is not a bad man—far from it! But he is too old, you know.
All these old men ought not to have been allowed to take part in the war. You know what it cost us. And the curious thing was, sir, that everybody admitted it; for in the end all these old fellows were sent out of harm’s way to Limousin, one after the other. But let’s talk of something else: this is almost politics, and is no business of mine.
Talking about M. Poisson, he has one great fault: he drinks. Apart from that, as I have told you, he wasn’t a bad sort. But the stuff a man is made of soon degenerates by being soaked continually with small doses, and often large ones too. M. Poisson drinks, and that’s unfortunate in a man who fills a responsible post.
What makes him even more peculiar is that he is not made as we others. He is in himself a unique type. The world, as M. Poisson sees it, falls into two classes. On one side, all those who are above him. When he is facing that way he salutes and says, “I understand, mon général; of course, colonel.” On the other side, all those who are below him. And when facing them, he gets purple with shouting, “Silence, will you!” and things of that kind. At bottom, I think he is right, and that he is bound to behave like that in his work. I repeat he isn’t a bad man—only timid. He shouts in order to convince himself he is not afraid.
But after all, that is a question of army administration, and it’s no business of mine. Let us talk of something else. It is a principle of mine never to speak of these things: it’s forbidden ground.
But I have a personal grudge against M. Poisson for having put me in the mortuary—I who can write in round hand or slanting hand, in Gothic or flowing hand, and a dozen others, and would have made such a capable secretary.
Just imagine how I was received: I arrive with my helmet, knapsack, and all my rig-out. I am shown into a hut, and am told: “The doctor is in there.”