r above the shed, and the shell 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:

"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 th