There were about a dozen doctors in the room. Four or five were indeed princes among doctors. The war had given me a unique opportunity of knowing these distinguished personalities, and I assure you I felt a not unnatural emotion in hearing them speak freely before me. My conversation of the morning with my orderly officer had very much upset me.
Mathematics impose on the mind stubborn habits of order. I am unfortunately a bachelor, but I have quite rational, serious views on the family and society, as you would expect from my tastes and my profession. I know that very learned mathematicians have been able to imagine triangles which did not have three sides, or parallel lines which ended in meeting in a point.... I cannot follow these masters on such a path: perhaps I am too old to follow such tracks. Anyhow, I am satisfied with what I do know. When looking at my library, and turning over the pages of my lecture note-books, I always experienced a pleasant sensation of order and discipline. Besides, the study of mathematics makes you logical. And what had happened to me that morning was not logical—in other words, was not just. And the thought that the demands of order required an illogical action even in the midst of the chaos of war, appeared to me the wildest incoherence.
You can then imagine the relief, even enthusiasm, I felt on hearing these eminent men justify my rebellious attitude. I listened to their words, marking them with approving nods of the head. I felt a keen, almost trembling enjoyment, mingled with pride and a kind of superstitious terror.
Gradually I became aware that the last emotion was becoming the dominant one. I feared I was relying too much on reason; without knowing my position, these gentlemen were too excited and earnest in their approval. This verbal exaltation of indiscipline made me feel an exquisite uneasiness, almost of pain. Forced to be quiet out of respect, I nevertheless mentally and repeatedly begged them to be calm: “Take care, gentlemen! Be calm, sirs!”
Such were my thoughts when, in the general uproar of voices, a bell was heard ringing: it was the visitors’ office bell. Immediately the room was strangely quiet.
“Monsieur le principal!” said a sergeant who had just appeared at the door; “the motor-car of the Chief of the Medical Staff is at the gate.”
“Good heavens!” said some one whom everybody called familiarly Father Coupé. Then automatically he adjusted his képi on his head, and stepped towards the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Professor Proby in a voice that was arrogant yet without much self-assurance.
“I’m going to receive him at the entrance,” replied the old fellow.
“What! There are other people for that. We can wait for him here while we work.”