"Lame!" repeated Kelz, winking and smiling; "lame! No matter. With such health as yours you can always hold your own."
He had scarcely ceased speaking when the door of the hall of the Council of Revision opened, and the other gendarme, Werner, putting out his head, called, "Joseph Bertha."
I entered, limping as much as I could, and Werner shut the door. The mayors of the canton were seated in a semi-circle, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet and the Mayor of Phalsbourg in the middle, in arm-chairs, and the Secretary Frélig at his table. A Harberg conscript was dressing himself, the gendarme Descarmes helping him. This conscript, with a mass of brown hair falling over his eyes, his neck bare, and his mouth open as he caught his breath, seemed like a man going to be hanged. Two surgeons—the Surgeon-in-Chief of the Hospital, with another in uniform—were conversing in the middle of the hall. They turned to me, saying, "Take off your coat."
I did so. The others looked on.
Monsieur the Sous-Préfet observed:
"There is a young man full of health."
These words angered me, but I nevertheless replied respectfully:
"I am lame, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet."
The surgeons examined me, and the one from the hospital, to whom Monsieur the Commandant had doubtless spoken of me, said: "The left leg is a little short." "Bah!" said the other; "it is sound."
Then placing his hand upon my chest he said, "The conformation is good. Cough."