“Ah! at last!” cried M. Perrier-Langlade. “Here you are, Monsieur Mourgue. Will you be good enough to tell me how many men you have at present in your huts?”
M. Mourgue appeared to sink into himself before replying, in a preoccupied tone:
“Twenty-eight, sir.”
M. Perrier-Langlade this time laughed a bitter, discouraged laugh.
“Well, well! it is not thirteen, nor five, but twenty-eight! Twenty-eight! And I was suspecting——”
“But, sir——” we cried all together excitedly.
From beneath the cloak of fur he thrust out his hand, which, in spite of its velvet glove, was none the less a mailed fist.
“Be silent, gentlemen! You do not understand. Twenty-eight!”
We looked at each other as if we had suddenly gone mad. M. Perrier-Langlade, carried away by sublime meditation, walked to and fro repeating, “Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!”
I noticed his voice had almost a provincial inflection, and was not without geniality. For a few moments he repeated, first shaking his head, then with increasing joy, “Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!” And I was convinced that to him figures did not mean the same thing as they do to you or me.