Mikhail Kyrilovitch sat on his bed whispering with his brother, about the medical examination of recruits which would take place on the morrow.
"Well, we can only hope for the best," said Feodor at last, "and they all say the same thing—that it is generally the merest formality. The Médecin-Major looks at your face and teeth and asks if you are healthy. It's not like what Ivan and I went through in Paris. … They wouldn't have two searching medical examinations unless there appeared to be signs of weakness, I should think."
When the room was wrapped in silence and darkness the latter arose.
"Good night, golubtchik," he whispered, "and when your heart fails you, remember Marie Spiridinoff—and be thankful you are here rather than There."
Mikhail shuddered.
Anon, every soul in the room was awakened by the uproarious entrance of the great Luigi Rivoli supported by Messieurs Malvin, Borges and Bauer, all very drunk and roaring "Brigadier vous avez raison," a song which tailed off into an inane repetition of—
"Si le Caporal savait ça
Il dirait 'nom de Dieu,’"
in the midst of which the great man collapsed upon his bed, while, with much hiccupping laughter and foul jokes, his faithful satellites contrived to remove his boots and leave him to sleep the sleep of the just and the drunken. …
Anon the Dutch youth, Hans Djoolte, sat up and looked around. All was quiet and apparently everyone was asleep. The conscience of Hans was pricking him—he had said his prayers lying in bed, and that was
