I had gone out--I don’t remember why--and I was kicking my heels on the frosty ground, when I saw a sumptuous motor-car come to a stop on the road. The door clicked open, and M. Perrier-Langlade came out, staggering under a heavy, luxurious fur cloak. I at once thought: “Ah, good! Here’s M. Perrier-Langlade coming to cheer up my poor patients.” I had a hundred yards to cover. I leaped over some dizzy gratings, and I arrived, rather out of breath, just in time to spring to attention before the door. M. Perrier-Langlade stamped with annoyance. “What!” he said to me. “There is no one here to receive me!” “I ask your pardon, Monsieur----” “Hold your tongue! You can see for yourself there is no one here. You have to-night taken in some of the wounded from Hut 521. I went to see the fire myself--at two o’clock in the morning--risking an attack of pneumonia. I’m not bothering about that, though; but it is my wish that some one should be here to receive me--here--when I come out of the car. If you hadn’t come there would have been no one, and I will not be kept waiting these very cold days. In future you will have an orderly permanently stationed here.” “But you understand, Monsieur----” “Hold your tongue! How many wounded did you take in to-night?” “Thirteen, Monsieur. It is true that----” “Enough! Thirteen! Thirteen!” M. Perrier-Langlade began to repeat the number, presumably for his own benefit. It was quite clear that this number suggested to his mind thoughts of a deep and wide significance. I don’t know what foolish impulse made me then open my mouth. “But note, sir----” “Be quiet!” he said angrily. “Thirteen! Thirteen!” I felt extremely confused and took refuge in complete silence. That didn’t last long. Ravier was approaching as fast as his legs could carry him: he had seen the motor, and had galloped.... He stopped dead at five paces, his two heels stuck in the crunching snow, and saluted. “There you are,” remarked M. Perrier-Langlade--“not too soon either. How many wounded have you taken in to-night that you wouldn’t have ordinarily?” Ravier gave me a despairing look. I showed him my open hand, holding apart my fingers, and Ravier, in spite of his discomfiture, replied: “Five, sir.” “Five! Five!” said M. Perrier-Langlade. “Then it is not thirteen, but five!” I jumped as if some one had stuck a hatpin in me. “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.