The doctor of the third division at that time was a man named
Briavoine. What a delightful and sympathetic person he was! He had such
a jolly way of feeling convinced about everything he said. And how I
loved to see him smile, with the wrinkles on his wide bare forehead and
round his eyes!
M. Briavoine was in his office when I arrived; but on that day no
smile lit up his face, which was frowning and majestic.
“No, no!” he was saying to those around him. “Dufrêne is a general, but
I--I am mere Briavoine.”
A silence full of respect greeted this firm avowal. The reputation of
M. Briavoine was more than European. He had distinguished himself in
the delicate art of making childbirth a less difficult and painful
process, and many princesses had benefited by his care.
I was so obsessed with my little affair that I began to wander over
the room without any real or apparent aim; and, in doing so, I very
clumsily knocked up against M. Briavoine.
“Be careful, my friend,” said this kind and courteous man.
The urbanity of M. Briavoine, the gentleness of his voice, his correct
and exquisite gesture, soothed my violated self-respect. I retired
gratefully and with modesty to a corner where papers were being
classified. And I thought: “How very polite he is, from every point of
view!...”
Gradually I regained my equanimity and took an interest in the
conversation of the officers--an interest which soon became very keen.
They were expecting, that very day, a visit from the Chief of the
Medical Staff of the Forces--General Dufrêne. The imperious and
diligent visits which this weighty person paid to the armies were
worthy of the highest praise, and were, too, occasions for keen
criticism.
M. Briavoine took off his braided tunic: gold and silver stripes
adorned the sleeves.
“Give me my overalls,” he said. “Monsieur Dufrêne wishes to be received
by his subordinates in full-dress uniform; but the needs of our
profession require a coat like this.”
A breath of rebellion disturbed the atmosphere. Those standing round M.
Briavoine were understood to murmur their assent, in which there was at
once something of bitterness, irony and defiance. Dressed in white, the
great doctor looked at himself contentedly.
“I am going to receive Dufrêne,” he said, “as I am now, in overalls,
without my _képi_; if he takes it into his head to object, he may
find that though I may be a subordinate, I am a man who has a right to
some independence. That I serve my country disinterestedly no one can
dispute, and I am not going to be lorded over. What have I to gain? My
work in civil life is worth all the honours that I could ever get here.”
These sensible views were hardly uttered before Professor Proby came
in. He was a very tall man, with straw-coloured hair, and a look that
expressed a seriousness bordering on stupidity. He used to bawl in
talking, cutting up his sentences with all kinds of interjections and
expletives which completely altered the sense of what he wanted to say.
He plunged into a conversation with as much good manners as a buffalo.
“What! What are you telling me? But I don’t care a hang.... Him! Why he
knows quite well that--what! I am Paul Proby! And I am a member of the
Academy; and I....”
It was true: Professor Proby honoured the Academy with his
contributions. He beat his foot on the ground, jingling his glittering
spurs, and the rather showy parts of an accoutrement that had remained
unused in a cupboard until the outbreak of war.
“Dufrêne! that man!” he said again. “I’ve always been on good terms
with him. But one mustn’t ... how annoying it is ... that man!”
M. Briavoine, who had tact, thought the conversation was getting
incoherent. With one turn of the rudder, he brought the ship back to
its course.
“It’s not a question of personalities, but a question of principle. We
are not, like our enemies, a race that has been brutally enslaved....”
This generalisation seemed to bring an atmosphere of philosophy into
the sunlit room. Everybody began to listen attentively, and the spirit
of revolt became measured and serious.
Since my interview with the orderly officer, one single word leaped
and danced in my head. I repeated it mechanically. I dissected its
syllables, obsessed and anxious.
Suddenly I felt that the word was going to be uttered; that it was
ripe, fertile, bursting; that it was going to spring out of my
head--escape--and alight, in turn, on every mouth that was speaking
there.
“You cannot,” said M. Briavoine, “ask Frenchmen to accept without
question an authority that has no bounds. I will even admit without any
shame that our race is the least disciplined in the world.”
“Authority, like alcohol, is a poison which makes man mad,” said a
spectacled young man with sharp looks.
“I thoroughly agree,” cried the doctor. “As for discipline....”
A sigh of satisfaction escaped me. It was done. The word had come out,
and I saw it disporting itself outside of me with a feeling at once of
deliverance and curiosity. I gazed at the celebrated doctor with a very
real gratitude. My satisfaction was indeed so great that in spite of my
low rank I vigorously nodded to show how completely I agreed with Dr.
Briavoine. And approval being always acceptable from any one however
insignificant, Dr. Briavoine gave me in passing one of those generous
smiles of his that were half-hidden away in his beard.
“Discipline,” he was saying, “is not perhaps a French virtue. But, God
be praised! we have others; and our critical spirit alone, so subtle,
incisive and delicate, is worth all the heavy qualities of our enemies.”
Doctor Coupé had come in almost unseen in the midst of the general
interest. Taken to task by his colleagues, this excellent old man
looked like a late-season leaf which the storm was trying to tear away
from a bough. For a few seconds he hesitated between his innate terror
of authority and his love of mischief. The vehemence of the views,
however, that prevailed left him no option; and the dry leaf sped away,
swirling in the gale.
“We are ready to shed our blood, if we are called upon,” the doctor
said, stating a principle; “but, in God’s name! they should ask us
politely.”
“The very least! Manners!” muttered Professor Proby. “I am disciplined
enough--on condition ... what?... We ask for some consideration.”
“You know what Dufrêne did, the day before yesterday?” ventured an
important-looking person, who was trying by a clever adjustment of
his collar and movement of his chin to keep his beard in a horizontal
position, and who acquired in this way an air of extraordinary majesty.
“Listen then....” And in the middle of a chorus of protestations
and laughter he began to tell the latest little scandal invented by
imaginations which are not content with the reading of the communiqués
of those glorious and tragic days.
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.”
“You mustn’t think of it,” said M. Coupé. “The custom----”
“Why, I used to call that fellow Dufrêne, without the Mr., in civil
life,” muttered Professor Proby. “And I contend that ... ha! the idea!”
“It’s a question of courtesy,” commented M. Briavoine. “Let’s go to the
door. Give me my tunic.”
“Don’t you wish to keep on your overalls, my dear master?” said the
young man with the sharp look.
“Of course. But I’m afraid of catching cold. Give me my _képi_ as well;
I can’t walk across the garden with nothing on my head.”