The New Book of Martyrs | Page 5

can know nothing till after this grave debate. The soul must
withdraw, for this is not its hour. Now the knife must divide the flesh,
and lay the ravage bare, and do its work completely.
So the two comrades go to sleep, in that dreadful slumber wherein each
man resembles his own corpse. Henceforth we enter upon the struggle.
We have laid our grasp upon these two bodies; we shall not let them be
snatched from us easily.
The nausea of the awakening, the sharp agony of the first hours are
over, and I begin to discover my new friends.
This requires time and patience. The dressing hour is propitious. The
man lies naked on the table. One sees him as a whole, as also those
great gaping wounds, the objects of so many hopes and fears.
The afternoon is no less favourable to communion, but that is another
matter. Calm has come to them, and these two creatures have ceased to
be nothing but a tortured leg and a screaming mouth.
Carre went ahead at once. He made a veritable bound. Whereas
Lerondeau seemed still wrapped in a kind of plaintive stupor, Carre
was already enfolding me in a deep affectionate gaze. He said:
"You must do all that is necessary."
Lerondeau can as yet only murmur a half articulate phrase:
"Mustn't hurt me."
As soon as I could distinguish and understand the boy's words, I called
him by his Christian name. I would say:

"How are you, Marie?" or "I am pleased with you, Marie."
This familiarity suits him, as does my use of "thee" and "thou" in
talking to him. He very soon guessed that I speak thus only to those
who suffer most, and for whom I have a special tenderness. So I say to
him: "Marie, the wound looks very well today." And every one in the
hospital calls him Marie as I do.
When he is not behaving well, I say:
"Come, be sensible, Lerondeau."
His eyes fill with tears at once. One day I was obliged to try "Monsieur
Lerondeau," and he was so hurt that I had to retract on the spot.
However, he now refrains from grumbling at his orderly, and
screaming too loudly during the dressing of his wound, for he knows
that the day I say to him "Be quiet, Monsiuer"--just Monsiuer--our
relations will be exceedingly strained.
From the first, Carre bore himself like a man. When I entered the
dressing ward, I found the two lying side by side on stretchers which
had been placed on the floor. Carre's emaciated arm emerged from
under his blanket, and he began to lecture Marie on the subject of hope
and courage.... I listened to the quavering voice, I looked at the
toothless face, lit up by a smile, and I felt a curious choking in my
throat, while Lerondeau blinked like a child who is being scolded. Then
I went out of the room, because this was a matter between those two
lying on the ground, and had nothing to do with me, a robust person,
standing on my feet.
Since then, Carre has proved that he had a right to preach courage to
young Lerondeau.
While the dressing is being prepared, he lies on the ground with the
others, waiting his turn, and says very little. He looks gravely round
him, and smiles when his eyes meet mine. He is not proud, but he is not
one of those who are ready to chatter to every one. One does not come
into this ward to talk, but to suffer, and Carre is bracing himself to

suffer as decently as possible.
When he is not quite sure of himself, he warns me, saying:
"I am not as strong as usual to-day."
Nine times, out of ten, he is "as strong as usual," but he is so thin, so
wasted, so reduced by his mighty task, that he is sometimes obliged to
beat a retreat. He does it with honour, with dignity. He has just said:
"My knee is terribly painful," and the sentence almost ends in a scream.
Then, feeling that he is about to howl like the others, Carre begins to
sing.
The first time this happened I did not quite understand what was going
on. He repeated the one phrase again and again: "Oh, the pain in my
knee!" And gradually I became aware that this lament was becoming a
real melody, and for five long minutes Carre improvised a terrible,
wonderful, heart-rending song on "the pain in his knee." Since then this
has become a habit, and he begins to sing suddenly as soon as he feels
that he can no longer keep silence.
Among his improvisations he will introduce old airs. I prefer not to
look at his