Part 5 (1/2)

”Tell my wife...”

That manly face is not the face of one who could be deceived by soft words and consoling phrases. The white blouse turns away. The surgeon's eyes grow dim behind his spectacles, and in solemn tones he replies:

”We will not fail to do so, friend.”

The patient's eyelids flutter--as one waves a handkerchief from the deck of a departing steamer--then, breathing in the ether steadily, he falls into a dark slumber.

He never wakes, and we keep our promise to him.

IV

A few days before the death of Tricot, a very annoying thing happened to him; a small excrescence, a kind of pimple, appeared on the side of his nose.

Tricot had suffered greatly; only some fragments of his hands remained; but, above all, he had a great opening in his side, a kind of fetid mouth, through which the will to live seemed to evaporate.

Coughing, spitting, looking about with wide, agonised eyes in search of elusive breath, having no hands to scratch oneself with, being unable to eat unaided, and further, never having the smallest desire to eat--could this be called living? And yet Tricot never gave in. He waged his own war with the divine patience of a man who had waged the great world war, and who knows that victory will not come right away.

But Tricot had neither allies nor reserves; he was all alone, so wasted and so exhausted that the day came when he pa.s.sed almost imperceptibly from the state of a wounded to that of a dying man.

And it was just at this moment that the pimple appeared.

Tricot had borne the greatest sufferings courageously; but he seemed to have no strength to bear this slight addition to his woes.

”Monsieur,” stammered the orderly who had charge of him, utterly dejected, ”I tell you, that pimple is the spark that makes the cup overflow.”

And in truth the cup overflowed. This misfortune was too much. Tricot began to complain, and from that moment I felt that he was doomed.

I asked him several times a day, thinking of all his wounds: ”How are you, old fellow?” And he, thinking of nothing but the pimple, answered always:

”Very bad, very bad! The pimple is getting bigger.”

It was true. The pimple had come to a head, and I wanted to p.r.i.c.k it.

Tricot, who had allowed us to cut into his chest without an anaesthetic, exclaimed with tears:

”No, no more operations! I won't have any more operations.”

All day long he lamented about his pimple, and the following night he died.

”It was a bad pimple,” said the orderly; ”it was that which killed him.”

Alas! It was not a very ”bad pimple,” but no doubt it killed him.

V

Mehay was nearly killed, but he did not die; so no great harm was done.