I remembered something M. Briavoine had said. I seemed to see him again buttoning his linen coat and saying, “What have I to gain?” Then I looked, greatly astonished, at his attentive face and respectful bearing. In the same way I observed his colleagues and, thinking of these men who had nothing to gain from their effacement and who had given way so completely, so hopelessly, I experienced a great admiration for them, and I had an insight into the meaning of discipline. But the perceptions of the intellect are often betrayed by other less noble impulses, for at the very same moment I could hardly restrain an inclination to laugh. M. Dufrêne had stopped in the middle of a dormitory. Fifty wounded men were lying there: some talked in low voices, others groaned from time to time, and others again were delirious. The Inspector-General clapped his hands: at once the silence was complete. The least disciplined race in the world stopped moaning; they ceased from their delirium. “Soldiers!” he said in a formidable voice, “the Government of the Republic has sent me to you to see how you are looked after. See how the Government of the Republic cares for you.” From one end of the room to the other heads were raised, necks were stretched, and all those who had any breath left in them replied together: “Thank you, General.” M. Dufrêne was going out. Behind him, the least disciplined race in the world followed in good order down a staircase leading to the gardens. I followed too, bringing up the rear. 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.