I assured him that it was my Christian name, and, what was more, the only one I possessed.
"Well, it's a queer Christian name, and I don't know where your people fished it out," he remarked. After a glance at the scale he dictated "1·78 metre in his socks," to his subordinate. He then ordered me to remove my socks, and, measuring me once more, pronounced the verdict "1·79 metre without socks."
"But, Sergeant," I asked, "how can I be taller without my socks than with them on?"
"You will perhaps teach me my business!" he angrily replied, and seeing that the private was hesitating to write down the figures, "D—— you," he shouted, "are you going to take that down or not?"
The private silently obeyed, doubtless accustomed for years to passive obedience.
I was then told to stand aside, and another fellow was called up. We were then sent, each in turn, into another room, where sat the Conseil de revision, presided over by a General in full uniform, assisted by officials also in uniform, and a few respectable-looking old gentlemen. I confess that I felt rather shy at having to appear without clothes before so ornamental a company, whose uniforms strangely contrasted with the state of nature I was in. A clerk, having inquired my name, fished out my papers from a huge bundle, and asked me a long list of questions about my family history. The President then inquired whether I could show any cause why I should not serve, and upon my negative reply, a military surgeon proceeded to examine me. A paper was handed over to him by the clerk.
"What's this?" he said. "You're one metre seventy-eight in your socks, and a centimetre more without them?"
"That's just what I said to the gendarme, sir," I replied, "but he told me to shut up."
The gendarme was called and questioned about the matter.
"All I can say, sir," he replied, "is that a machine can't lie, and I've had enough experience not to make a mistake."