“Ah, good! Excellent!”
When he had gone, Revaud always used to assure us:
“The general wouldn’t think of coming here without seeing me. He’s an old pal.”
After that, there was something to talk about the whole day.
Many officers used to come as well—of the highest rank. They read the papers pinned on the wall. “Frankly,” they said, “it’s a very fine result.”
One of them began one day to examine Mery. He was a doctor, with a white-bearded chin, very large and corpulent, his breast decorated with crosses and his neck pink with good living. He seemed a decent fellow and disposed to show sympathy. He said, in fact:
“Poor devil! Ah, but you see the same sort of thing might happen to me.”
More often than not, nobody came, absolutely no one, and the day was endured only by being taken in small mouthfuls, like their meat at dinner.
Once a great event happened. Mery was taken out and placed under the X-rays. He came back, well content, remarking:
“At least, it isn’t painful.”