A short silence takes possession of everyone in the room: the echo of a tragedy is felt. The man is obviously very ill. His chest is horrible, distorted by violent breathing. He can hardly stand on his swollen legs, which are marked with large purple veins.
“Rejected!” cries the judge.
And the unfortunate creature returns to his rags, with lowered shoulders, his eyes dazed like a bull that has been felled.
The man who followed was a fatalist: he refused to discuss his position.
“That won’t prevent you serving.”
“Bah! just as you like.”
“Then, the fighting line!”
“As you wish; I don’t care a damn.”
And he withdraws immediately, liberated like a man who stakes his future on a mere throw of the dice.
All those who go away leave behind them something of the heavy smell of unwashed bodies. Curious thing, they all have a fetid breath; for that day they have eaten too quickly, badly digested their food, smoked and drunk too much. From all these mouths comes the same warm, sour breath which betrays the same emotion—the same breakdown of the machine.