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.” I raised my eyes towards the hospital. A clock adorned its front. Then, clicking my heels together, raising my right hand to the height of my _képi_, I replied quite simply: “Sir, I am not going to complain. It is five minutes to twelve. At twelve I shall be in prison.” The bulldog face relaxed. I thought he was going to thank me. He was finally content to mumble: “That’s a good thing!” He went away. I proceeded, without laughing, to the guard-room. You know the rest: I passed four days and four nights there. It was in the middle of September. At that time the flower of the French army were accomplishing such deeds of valour that an immense feeling of gratitude seemed to stir the whole country from end to end. And it was in a prison that I was fated to offer these men my humble thanks. During those four days I thought of many queer things. But of them I will tell you another time. CUIRASSIER CUVELIER 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.