I went back to my scrubbing. That is very tiring work for a man who has spent his life studying mathematics; but in September 1914 a spirit of determination and of sacrifice had aroused all Frenchmen worthy of the name. I had volunteered to serve my country humbly, proudly, within the extreme limits of my strength; and as it was upon my physical strength that the demand was chiefly being made, I used every day to scrub the floor with enthusiasm. On that morning I threw myself frantically into the job, with such a will indeed that heavy drops of perspiration undid my work. I suffered, but was quite content: we water our native soil with what we can. Don’t you think so?
The sergeant came back.
“Monsieur Bouin,” he said, “it’s you all right. You’ve got four days’ clink, and it’s a dirty trick they are playing on you. Quite lately a doctor joined up who has the same name as yours, but he hasn’t yet been given his rank. As he does the work of a major, he hasn’t to stick it on night duty. But the clerks, who never know anything, put him down for duty, and that’s how no one turned up. You understand? Then the colonel ordered four days’ imprisonment. But the orderly officer got him to see that he couldn’t punish the doctor, who’s got his job to do! But you see the punishment has been posted under the name Bouin; and as some one has got to be punished, I suppose it’s got to be you....”
I was holding one of those scrubbing-sticks at the end of which a piece of wax was usually fixed. I was so astounded that I let the thing fall. The clumsy clatter seemed to be cruelly emphasised by the echoing walls of the room. It sounded like a smack. I felt so wretched.
“Go yourself and see the officer,” said the sergeant, rather touched, shifting from one leg to the other. “I have now to see about the signatures....”
I let him go; for when this good fellow talks of signatures, he is tortured by a very necessary need, which he cannot satisfy without suffering those shooting pains....
I placed my scrubbing implements in a corner, and I hastened to the office, buttoning my little jacket with trembling fingers: my equanimity was never real, and I felt some difficulty in controlling my emotions.
I knew the officer: he was an old Alsatian whom the war had dragged out of a mairie where he was spending the days of his retirement. He had not, up till then, appeared to me a difficult person, nor needlessly fussy; and I did not despair of being able to make him unbend and to acknowledge himself in the wrong.
“Ah! it’s you, Bouin,” he said coolly. “Well, you’ve got to do four days’ imprisonment. You begin at noon.”
“But, sir,” I said, “while my name is Bouin—Bouin, Léon—and——”