I felt extremely confused and took refuge in complete silence. That didn’t last long. Ravier was approaching as fast as his legs could carry him: he had seen the motor, and had galloped.... He stopped dead at five paces, his two heels stuck in the crunching snow, and saluted.
“There you are,” remarked M. Perrier-Langlade—“not too soon either. How many wounded have you taken in to-night that you wouldn’t have ordinarily?”
Ravier gave me a despairing look. I showed him my open hand, holding apart my fingers, and Ravier, in spite of his discomfiture, replied:
“Five, sir.”
“Five! Five!” said M. Perrier-Langlade. “Then it is not thirteen, but five!”
I jumped as if some one had stuck a hatpin in me.
“But note, sir, that——”
“Hold your tongue!” he said, with an authoritative calm. “Five! Five!”
And he began to repeat this word, with an air that was at once Olympian and indulgent, like some one who cannot reproach men who are too ignorant to enjoy the supreme delights of arithmetic.
We looked at one another, astounded, when we heard the tread of a pair of hobnailed boots, and M. Mourgue appeared, his nose blue with cold, his little beard quite stiff, and emitting, as he panted, a cloud of steam.