They are not the flower of the race: for a long time now the finest men in the land have been living up to their waists in mud, alert as cats to the dangers threatening them. It is long since the farmer found anything in his winnow except chaff and dust, and it is there still that he searches with an avaricious hand for a few scattered grains.
The men are not cold: hot blasts of air come rushing along the floor from a blazing heating apparatus. Yet many of the men shiver. Balancing sometimes on one hip, sometimes on another, they fold and unfold their arms, then drop them, failing to strike any attitude. They are ashamed of their nakedness.
In the corner, near the door, a gendarme is pushing and hustling a thin, frail little worker who is too slow in undressing: he thought he need not pull off his socks and pants. He is forced to do so, however, and he discloses two unwashed feet.
The men in overalls work with feverish haste, like scene-shifters on the stage.
They ask short, succinct questions, and at once they feel and press with their quickly moving hands.
The victim is rather pale. A warm dew comes out in beads on his temples. He mumbles and speaks entreatingly. Then, examined once again, he replies with more assurance.
“You only suffer from that. Do you cough?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure you suffer from palpitation of the heart?”
“Oh, quite sure, quite!”