Nearly half of the numbers up to 30 did not come back. A sergeant fetched their clothes. But those who did come back wore an all the gladder look, dressed themselves as quickly as they could, or, for fear lest the gentleman inside should repent of having let them go, bundled their clothes under their arms and slipped out through some hole or other.
Numbers 51 to 65 all came back. Number 66 did not reappear. The sergeant came for his things. Then, at last, Number 67 was called. I walked with the utmost composure—rather too fast than too slow—into the lions' den.
What was there so extraordinary? Three or four gentlemen in black coats, with shiny buttons, silver collars, clattering swords and warlike moustaches. The blades were smoking cigars. My first thought was, could they be bribed with a civil "Good morning"? But I had heard from the men before me that the gentlemen had not said so much as "Thank you" to this greeting. We were just "things." And who is going to exchange greetings with a Number 67? So I bit my teeth together and held my tongue and sported my most defiant air.
I was at once put against an upright post. One of the officers, with a soft pressure of the hand, pushed my chest out and my knees in and said:
"Sixty-four and a half!"
Another seemed to write it down.
"Chest sound. Muscles might be more developed."
"Give him another year to run about in," said a third.
"Go and dress yourself!"
That was the whole proceeding. I hardly know how I got back to the front room. As I went out by the steps, the soldiers on duty stuck their bayonets in my way: that means a request to the lucky ones for a tip. It did not need the bayonets: everyone gives, for it is the moment when he is free to leave the fatal building, with its often harsh consequences, and return to his dear home.