I was enveloped in the shadows of the stairs, and before my bewildered
eyes interrogation marks began to dance multicoloured. They vanished,
and I then imagined a theatre where men appeared in their turn, said
what they had been taught, and arranged themselves in good and proper
order, some to speak again, others to dance, some to carry heavy
loads, and others to die. Across the top of the stage a word was
engraved which I could not make out, but which suddenly became luminous
when I heard the spectacled young man on my right whisper to his
comrade:
“It is a convention--a great convention in the midst of all the other
conventions of life. It’s very queer, but not more so than that which
compels us to arrange the words of a conversation in such or such an
order.”
We were now in the garden. The green and amber glow of late summer put
an end to one’s dreams.
The inspector had grouped his audience and was saying:
“You, Coupé, I congratulate you heartily. And in so doing I am
conscious of the real pleasure I am giving you.”
M. Dufrêne was making no mistake, for the excellent doctor felt so
pleased indeed that he blushed to the roots of his white hair.
There were other congratulations too, and also criticisms. Those who
had been praised were surrounded by courtiers. Those who had been
blamed were humiliated and left alone. Thus Professor Proby could be
seen withdrawing, alone and abashed, like a schoolboy sent into a
corner.
M. Briavoine closed the door of the motor-car with his own hands.
As the vehicle was about to start, the phenomenon of the salute
was witnessed once more: left arms to the sides, right arms raised
simultaneously.
The most undisciplined race in the world stiffened itself into the
regulation attitude.
The motor-car started off with a hoot.
“All the same, he’s a very remarkable man,” said Doctor Coupé, who
seemed to be still half-asleep. And he repeated: “Yes, all the same----”
“He behaved well,” said M. Briavoine.
I noticed the person with the horizontal beard. His fine growth seemed
to point down towards his chest, but he readjusted it by a voluntary
movement of the chin, and said:
“Certainly, very well; but I would never hesitate, on occasion, to tell
him exactly what I thought.”
“Certainly,” said M. Briavoine, “obedience should never go to the
length of surrendering your reasoning powers.”
Everybody looked as if he had been doped with a subtle poison, but was
gradually getting back to consciousness.
The sweet-smelling breeze played over the grass. I saw fluttering
before my eyes the flighty thistleseed, winged and fleecy. With a neat
little movement M. Briavoine caught it as he would a fly, and looked at
it absently as he ended his sentence:
“Discipline,” he said, “does not imply, with us, the suppression of our
critical spirit.”
And I saw, in fact, that the critical spirit had returned.
The group was disappearing. I was contemplating the tips of my shoes.
The registers weighed heavily on my arm, and I tried to understand--to
understand it all, when a hand struck my shoulder.
“Well! you are not in the guard-room, my boy! Good! That’s right!”
Purple, apoplectic, the orderly officer looked at me furiously but
there was also in his eyes a sad, pleading expression. He added:
“You make your complaint. You’ll see what’ll happen.”