The Conscript: A Story of the French war of 1813. Erckmann-Chatrian

swallowed all the vinegar in his bottle. Then I dressed myself, thinking that I looked like a dead man, for the vinegar was very strong; but when I entered Monsieur Goulden's room, he cried out:

      "Joseph, what is the matter with you? You are as red as a cock's comb."

      And, looking at myself in the mirror, I saw that my face was red to my ears, and to the tip of my nose. I was frightened, but instead of growing pale I became redder yet, and I cried out in my distress:

      "'Now I am lost indeed! I will seem like a man without a single defect, and full of health. The vinegar is rushing to my head."

      "What vinegar?" asked Monsieur Goulden.

      "That in your bottle. I drank it to make myself pale, as they say Mademoiselle Sclapp, the organist does. O heavens! what a fool I was."

      "That does not prevent your being lame," said Monsieur Goulden; "but you tried to deceive the council, which was dishonest. But it is half-past nine, and Werner is come to tell me you must be there at ten o'clock. So, hurry."

      I had to go in that state; the heat of the vinegar seemed bursting from my cheeks, and when I met Catharine and her mother, who were waiting for me at the town-house, they scarcely knew me.

      "How happy and satisfied you look!" said Aunt Grédel.

      I would have fainted on hearing this if the vinegar had not sustained me in spite of myself. I went upstairs in terrible agony, without being able to move my tongue to reply, so great was the horror I felt at my folly.

      Upstairs, more than twenty-five conscripts who pretended to be infirm, had been examined and received, while twenty-five others, on a bench along the wall, sat with drooping heads awaiting their turn.

      The old gendarme, Kelz, with his huge cocked hat, was walking about, and as soon as he saw me, exclaimed:

      "At last! At last! Here is one, at all events, who will not be sorry to go; the love of glory is shining in his eyes. Very good, Joseph; I predict that at the end of the campaign you will be corporal."

      "But I am lame," I cried, angrily.

      "Lame!" repeated Kelz, winking and smiling, "lame! No matter. With such health as yours you can always hold your own."

      He had scarcely ceased speaking when the door of the hall of the Council of Revision opened, and the other gendarme, Werner, putting out his head, called me by name, "Joseph Bertha."

      I entered, limping as much as I could, and Werner shut the door. The mayors of the canton were seated in a semicircle, Monsieur the Sub-Prefect and the Mayor of Phalsbourg in the middle, in arm-chairs, and the Secretary Freylig at his table. A Harberg conscript was dressing himself, the gendarme Descarmes helping him put on his suspenders. This conscript, with a mass of brown hair falling over his eyes, his neck bare, and his mouth open as he caught his breath, seemed like a man going to be hanged. Two surgeons – the Surgeon-in-Chief of the Hospital, with another in uniform – were conversing in the middle of the hall. They turned to me saying, "Undress yourself."

      I did so, even to my shirt. The others looked on.

      Monsieur the Sub-Prefect observed:

      "There is a young man full of health."

      These words angered me, but I nevertheless replied respectfully:

      "I am lame, Monsieur the Sub-Prefect."

      The surgeon examined me, and the one from the hospital, to whom Monsieur the Commandant had doubtless spoken of me, said:

      "The left leg is a little short."

      "Bah!" said the other; "it is sound."

      Then placing his hand upon my chest he said, "The conformation is good. Cough."

      I coughed as feebly as I could; but he found me all right, and said again:

      "Look at his color. How good his blood must be!"

      Then I, seeing that they would pass me if I remained silent, replied:

      "I have been drinking vinegar."

      "Ah!" said he; "that proves you have a good stomach; you like vinegar."

      "But I am lame!" I cried in my distress.

      "Bah! don't grieve at that," he answered; "your leg is sound. I'll answer for it."

      "But that," said Monsieur the Mayor, "does not prevent his being lame from birth; all Phalsbourg knows that."

      "The leg is too short," said the surgeon from the hospital; "it is doubtless a case for exemption."