At first I see no one. M. Poisson is buried up to his hair in papers: I can just hear his asthmatical breathing, like wind blowing through keyholes. Suddenly he comes out of his hiding-place, and considers me. I see a rather heavy old man, short-legged, not very clean, with black-lined nails, an excess of skin on the back of the hand, a freckled skin that overlaps. He examines me carefully, but behaves as if he does not see me. I, on my part, look straight at him and observe him in detail: on his nose he has little varicose veins, his cheeks are rather blue, and under his chin hangs some loose skin, like the snout of beasts, and beneath his eyes two pouches that are never still, and brandy-coloured, which you feel like pricking with a pin.
He looks at me once again, spits, and says:
“Yes....”
I reply immediately:
“At your service, sir!”
Then he begins to shout in a hoarse voice:
“Speak when you are spoken to. Be quiet, will you! You see I’m up to my neck with this offensive, the wounded, and all these things here.”
What could I reply? I stand at attention and again say:
“Yes, sir; at your service, sir!”
He lights a cigarette and begins to wheeze, as you may have noticed, from the effects of alcohol on his chest.