Outside of the arsenal and the penitentiary, there is nothing but
barracks, corps-de-garde, fortifications, ditches, uniforms, bayonets,
sabres and drums. From morning until night, military music sounds under
your windows, soldiers pass through the streets, come, go, and drill;
the bugle sounds incessantly and the troops file past. You understand at
once that the arsenal constitutes the real city and that the other is
completely swallowed up by it. Everywhere and in every form reappear
discipline, administration, ruled paper. Factitious symmetry and idiotic
cleanliness are much admired. In the navy hospital for instance, the
floors are so highly polished that a convalescent trying to walk on his
mended leg would probably fall and break the other. But it looks nice.
Between each ward is a yard, but the sun never shines in it, and the
grass is carefully kept out. The kitchens are beautiful, but are
situated so far from the main building that in winter the food must be
cold before it reaches the patients. But who cares about them? Aren't
the saucepans like polished suns? We saw a man who had broken his skull
in falling from a vessel, and who for eighteen hours had received no
medical assistance whatsoever; but his sheets were immaculate, for the
linen department is very well kept.
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