A breath of rebellion disturbed the atmosphere. Those standing round M. Briavoine were understood to murmur their assent, in which there was at once something of bitterness, irony and defiance. Dressed in white, the great doctor looked at himself contentedly.
“I am going to receive Dufrêne,” he said, “as I am now, in overalls, without my képi; if he takes it into his head to object, he may find that though I may be a subordinate, I am a man who has a right to some independence. That I serve my country disinterestedly no one can dispute, and I am not going to be lorded over. What have I to gain? My work in civil life is worth all the honours that I could ever get here.”
These sensible views were hardly uttered before Professor Proby came in. He was a very tall man, with straw-coloured hair, and a look that expressed a seriousness bordering on stupidity. He used to bawl in talking, cutting up his sentences with all kinds of interjections and expletives which completely altered the sense of what he wanted to say. He plunged into a conversation with as much good manners as a buffalo.
“What! What are you telling me? But I don’t care a hang.... Him! Why he knows quite well that—what! I am Paul Proby! And I am a member of the Academy; and I....”
It was true: Professor Proby honoured the Academy with his contributions. He beat his foot on the ground, jingling his glittering spurs, and the rather showy parts of an accoutrement that had remained unused in a cupboard until the outbreak of war.
“Dufrêne! that man!” he said again. “I’ve always been on good terms with him. But one mustn’t ... how annoying it is ... that man!”
M. Briavoine, who had tact, thought the conversation was getting incoherent. With one turn of the rudder, he brought the ship back to its course.
“It’s not a question of personalities, but a question of principle. We are not, like our enemies, a race that has been brutally enslaved....”
This generalisation seemed to bring an atmosphere of philosophy into the sunlit room. Everybody began to listen attentively, and the spirit of revolt became measured and serious.
Since my interview with the orderly officer, one single word leaped and danced in my head. I repeated it mechanically. I dissected its syllables, obsessed and anxious.