ious. The man who lies there is called Carre.

They did not come from the same battlefield, but they were hit almost at
the same time, and they have the same wound. Each has a fractured thigh.
Chance brought them together in the same distant ambulance, where their
wounds festered side by side. Since then they have kept together, till
now they lie enfolded by the blue radiance of the Master's gaze.

He looks at both, and shakes his head silently; truly, a bad business!
He can but ask himself which of the two will die first, so great are the
odds against the survival of either.

The white-bearded man considers them in silence, turning in his hand the
cunning knife.

We 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:

"C