The Cuvelier affair made a deep and lasting impression on me. M.
Poisson is not a bad man--far from it! But he is too old, you know.
All these old men ought not to have been allowed to take part in the
war. You know what it cost us. And the curious thing was, sir, that
everybody admitted it; for in the end all these old fellows were sent
out of harm’s way to Limousin, one after the other. But let’s talk of
something else: this is almost politics, and is no business of mine.
Talking about M. Poisson, he has one great fault: he drinks. Apart from
that, as I have told you, he wasn’t a bad sort. But the stuff a man is
made of soon degenerates by being soaked continually with small doses,
and often large ones too. M. Poisson drinks, and that’s unfortunate in
a man who fills a responsible post.
What makes him even more peculiar is that he is not made as we others.
He is in himself a unique type. The world, as M. Poisson sees it,
falls into two classes. On one side, all those who are above him.
When he is facing that way he salutes and says, “I understand, _mon
général_; of course, colonel.” On the other side, all those who
are below him. And when facing them, he gets purple with shouting,
“Silence, will you!” and things of that kind. At bottom, I think he is
right, and that he is bound to behave like that in his work. I repeat
he isn’t a bad man--only timid. He shouts in order to convince himself
he is not afraid.
But after all, that is a question of army administration, and it’s no
business of mine. Let us talk of something else. It is a principle of
mine never to speak of these things: it’s forbidden ground.
But I have a personal grudge against M. Poisson for having put me in
the mortuary--I who can write in round hand or slanting hand, in Gothic
or flowing hand, and a dozen others, and would have made such a capable
secretary.
Just imagine how I was received: I arrive with my helmet, knapsack,
and all my rig-out. I am shown into a hut, and am told: “The doctor is
in there.”
At first I see no one. M. Poisson is buried up to his hair in papers:
I can just hear his asthmatical breathing, like wind blowing through
keyholes. Suddenly he comes out of his hiding-place, and considers
me. I see a rather heavy old man, short-legged, not very clean, with
black-lined nails, an excess of skin on the back of the hand, a
freckled skin that overlaps. He examines me carefully, but behaves as
if he does not see me. I, on my part, look straight at him and observe
him in detail: on his nose he has little varicose veins, his cheeks are
rather blue, and under his chin hangs some loose skin, like the snout
of beasts, and beneath his eyes two pouches that are never still, and
brandy-coloured, which you feel like pricking with a pin.
He looks at me once again, spits, and says:
“Yes....”