The New Book of Martyrs | Page 7

cannot feel
certain stings.
Marie has told me the story of his life and of his campaign. As he is not
very eloquent, It was for the most part a confused murmur with an
ever-recurring protestation:
"I was a good one to work, you know, strong as a horse."
Yet I can hardly imagine that there was once a Marie Lerondeau who
was a robust young fellow, standing firm and erect between the handles
of a plough. I know him only as a man lying on his back, and I even
find it difficult to picture to myself what his shape and aspect will be
when we get him on his feet again.
Marie did his duty bravely under fire. "He stayed alone with the
wagons and when he was wounded, the Germans kicked him with their
heavy boots." These are the salient points of the interrogatory.
Now and again Lerondeau's babble ceases, and he looks up to the
ceiling, for this takes the place of distance and horizon to those who lie
upon their backs. After a long, light silence, he looks at me again, and

repeats:
"I must have been pretty brave to stay alone with the wagons!"
True enough, Lerondeau was brave, and I take care to let people know
it. When strangers come in during the dressings, I show them Marie,
who is making ready to groan, and say:
"This is Marie--Marie Lerondeau, you know. He has a fractured thigh,
but he is a very brave fellow. He stayed alone with the wagons."
The visitors nod their heads admiringly, and Marie controls himself. He
blushes a little, and the muscles of his neck swell with pride. He makes
a sign with his eyes as if to say: "Yes, indeed, alone, all alone with the
wagons." And meanwhile, the dressing has been nearly finished.
The whole world must know that Marie stayed alone with the wagons. I
intend to pin a report of this on the Government pension certificate.
Carre was only under fire once, and was hit almost immediately. He is
much annoyed at this, for he had a good stock of courage, and now he
has to waste it within the walls of a hospital.
He advanced through a huge beetroot field, and he ran with the others
towards a fine white mist. All of a sudden, crack, he fell! His thigh was
fractured. He fell among the thick leaves, on the waterlogged earth.
Shortly afterwards his sergeant passed again, and said to him:
"We are going back to our trench, they shall come and fetch you later."
Carre merely said:
"Put my haversack under my head."
Evening was coming on; he prepared, gravely, to spend the night
among the beetroots. And there he spent it, alone with a cold drizzling
rain, meditating seriously until morning.

It was fortunate that Carre brought such a stock of courage into hospital,
for he needs it all. Successive operations and dressings make large
drafts upon the most generous supplies.
They put Carre upon the table, and I note an almost joyful resolution in
his look. To-day he has "all his strength, to the last ounce."
But just to-day, I have but little to do, not much suffering to inflict. He
has scarcely knitted his brows, when I begin to fasten up the apparatus
again.
Then Carre's haggard face breaks into a smile, and he exclaims:
"Finished already? Put some more ether on, make it sting a bit at least."
Carre knows that the courage of which there was no need to-day will
not, perhaps, be available to-morrow.
And to-morrow, and for many days after, Carre will have to be
constantly calling up those reserves of the soul which help the body to
suffer while it waits for the good offices of Nature.
The swimmer adrift on the open seas measures his strength, and strives
with all his muscles to keep himself afloat. But what is he to do when
there is no land on the horizon, and none beyond it?
This leg, infected to the very marrow, seems to be slowly devouring the
man to whom it belongs; we look at it anxiously, and the white-haired
Master fixes two small light-blue eyes upon it, eyes accustomed to
appraise the things of life, yet, for the moment, hesitant.
I speak to Carre in veiled words of the troublesome, gangrenous leg. He
gives a toothless laugh, and settles the question at once.
"Well, if the wretched thing is a nuisance, we shall have to get rid of
it."
After this consent, we shall no doubt make up our minds to do so.

Meanwhile Lerondeau is creeping steadily towards healing.
Lying on his back, bound up in bandages and a zinc trough, and
imprisoned by cushions, he nevertheless looks like a ship which the