M. Briavoine was in his office when I arrived; but on that day no smile lit up his face, which was frowning and majestic.
“No, no!” he was saying to those around him. “Dufrêne is a general, but I—I am mere Briavoine.”
A silence full of respect greeted this firm avowal. The reputation of M. Briavoine was more than European. He had distinguished himself in the delicate art of making childbirth a less difficult and painful process, and many princesses had benefited by his care.
I was so obsessed with my little affair that I began to wander over the room without any real or apparent aim; and, in doing so, I very clumsily knocked up against M. Briavoine.
“Be careful, my friend,” said this kind and courteous man.
The urbanity of M. Briavoine, the gentleness of his voice, his correct and exquisite gesture, soothed my violated self-respect. I retired gratefully and with modesty to a corner where papers were being classified. And I thought: “How very polite he is, from every point of view!...”
Gradually I regained my equanimity and took an interest in the conversation of the officers—an interest which soon became very keen.
They were expecting, that very day, a visit from the Chief of the Medical Staff of the Forces—General Dufrêne. The imperious and diligent visits which this weighty person paid to the armies were worthy of the highest praise, and were, too, occasions for keen criticism.
M. Briavoine took off his braided tunic: gold and silver stripes adorned the sleeves.
“Give me my overalls,” he said. “Monsieur Dufrêne wishes to be received by his subordinates in full-dress uniform; but the needs of our profession require a coat like this.”