Part 4 (2/2)

He has none, but he has a broken leg, ”due to a torpedo.”

The orderly cuts open his trouser, and I tell him to take off the boot.

Mouchon puts out his hand, and says diffidently:

”Never mind the boot.”

”But, my good fellow, we can't dress your leg without taking off your boot.”

Then Mouchon, red and confused, objects:

”But if you take off the boot, I'm afraid my foot will smell....”

I have often thought of this answer. And believe me, Mouchon, I have not yet met the prince who is worthy to take off your boots and wash your humble feet.

II

With his forceps the doctor lays hold carefully of a ma.s.s of b.l.o.o.d.y dressings, and draws them gently out of a gaping wound in the abdomen. A ray of suns.h.i.+ne lights him at his work, and the whole of the frail shed trembles to the roar of the cannon.

”I am a big china-dealer,” murmurs the patient. ”You come from Paris, and I do, too. Save me, and you shall see.... I'll give you a fine piece of china.”

The plugs are coming out by degrees; the forceps glitter, and the ray of suns.h.i.+ne seems to tremble under the cannonade, as do the floor, the walls, the light roof, the whole earth, the whole universe, drunk with fatigue.

Suddenly, from the depths of s.p.a.ce, a whining sound arises, swells, rends the air above the shed, and the sh.e.l.l bursts a few yards off, with the sound of a cracked object breaking.

The thin walls seem to quiver under the pressure of the air. The doctor makes a slight movement of his head, as if to see, after all, where the thing fell.

Then the china-dealer, who noted the movement, says in a quiet voice:

”Don't take any notice of those small things, they don't do any harm. Only save me, and I will give you a beautiful piece of china or earthenware, whichever you like.”

III

The root of the evil is not so much the shattered leg, as the little wound in the arm, from which so much good blood was lost.

With his livid lips, no longer distinguishable from the rest of his face, and the immense black pupils of his eyes, the man shows a countenance irradiated by a steadfast soul, which will not give in till the last moment. He contemplates the ravages of his body almost severely, and without illusion, and watching the surgeons as they scrub their hands, he says in a grave voice:

”Tell my wife that my last thoughts were of her and our children.”

Ah! it was not a veiled question, for, without a moment's hesitation, he allows us to put the mask over his face.

The solemn words seem still to echo through the ward:

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