“But note, sir, that----”
“Hold your tongue!” he said, with an authoritative calm. “Five! Five!”
And he began to repeat this word, with an air that was at once Olympian
and indulgent, like some one who cannot reproach men who are too
ignorant to enjoy the supreme delights of arithmetic.
We looked at one another, astounded, when we heard the tread of a pair
of hobnailed boots, and M. Mourgue appeared, his nose blue with cold,
his little beard quite stiff, and emitting, as he panted, a cloud of
steam.
“Ah! at last!” cried M. Perrier-Langlade. “Here you are, Monsieur
Mourgue. Will you be good enough to tell me how many men you have at
present in your huts?”
M. Mourgue appeared to sink into himself before replying, in a
preoccupied tone:
“Twenty-eight, sir.”