The New Book of Martyrs | Page 9

to her as one of the most interesting specimens of the
house. She looked at him with a curious, faded smile, which, thanks to
paint and powder, still had a certain beauty.
She made some patriotic remarks to Carre full of allusions to his
conduct under fire. And Carre ceased staring out of the window to look
at the lady with eyes full of respectful astonishment.
And then she asked Carre what she could send him that he would like,
with a gesture that seemed to offer the kingdoms of the earth and the

glory of them.
Carre, in return, gave her a radiant smile; he considered for a moment
and then said modestly:
"A little bit of veal with new potatoes."
The handsome lady thought it tactful to laugh. And I felt instinctively
that her interest in Carre was suddenly quenched.
An old man sometimes comes to visit Carre. He stops before the bed,
and with a stony face pronounces words full of an overflowing
benevolence.
"Give him anything he asks for.... Send a telegram to his family."
Carre protests timidly: "Why a telegram? I have no one but my poor
old mother; it would frighten her."
The little old gentleman emerges from his varnished boots like a
variegated plant from a double vase.
Carre coughs--first, to keep himself in countenance, and, secondly,
because his cruel bronchitis takes this opportunity to give him a
shaking.
Then the old gentleman stoops, and all his medals hang out from his
tunic like little dried-up breasts. He bends down, puffing and pouting,
without removing his gold-trimmed KEPI, and lays a deaf ear on
Carre's chest with an air of authority.
Carre's leg has been sacrificed. The whole limb has gone, leaving a
huge and dreadful wound level with the trunk.
It is very surprising that the rest of Carre did not go with the leg.
He had a pretty hard day.
O life! O soul! How you cling to this battered carcase! O little gleam on

the surface of the eye! Twenty times I saw it die down and kindle again.
And it seemed too suffering, too weak, too despairing ever to reflect
anything again save suffering, weakness, and despair.
During the long afternoon, I go and sit between two beds beside
Lerondeau. I offer him cigarettes, and we talk. This means that we say
nothing, or very little.... But it is not necessary to speak when one has a
talk with Lerondeau.
Marie is very fond of cigarettes, but what he likes still better is that I
should come and sit by him for a bit. When I pass through the ward, he
taps coaxingly upon his sheet, as one taps upon a bench to invite a
friend to a seat.
Since he told me about his life at home and his campaign, he has not
found much to say to me. He takes the cakes with which his little shelf
is laden, and crunches them with an air of enjoyment.
"As for me," he says, "I just eat all the time," and he laughs.
If he stops eating to smoke, he laughs again. Then there is an agreeable
silence. Marie looks at me, and begins to laugh again. And when I get
up to go, he says: "Oh, you are not in such a great hurry, we can chat a
little longer!"
Lerondeau's leg was such a bad business that it is now permanently
shorter than the other by a good twelve centimetres. So at least it seems
to us, looking down on it from above.
But Lerondeau, who has only seen it from afar by raising his head a
little above the table while his wounds are being dressed, has noticed
only a very slight difference in length between his two legs.
He said philosophically:
"It is shorter, but with a good thick sole...."
When Marie was better, he raised himself on his elbow, and he

understood the extent of his injury more clearly.
"I shall want a VERY thick sole," he remarked.
Now that Lerondeau can sit up, he, too, can estimate the extent of the
damage from above; but he is happy to feel life welling up once more
in him, and he concludes gaily:
"What I shall want is not a sole, but a little bench."
But Carre is ill, terribly ill.
That valiant soul of his seems destined to be left alone, for all else is
failing.
He had one sound leg. Now it is stiff and swollen.
He had healthy, vigorous arms. Now one of them is covered with
abscesses.
The joy of breathing no longer exists for Carre, for his cough shakes
him savagely in his bed.
The back, by means of which we rest, has also betrayed him. Here and
there it is ulcerated; for