t by
turning. She sent one of the orderlies, Fouquet, for the _Medecin Chef_,
and the _Medecin Chef_ came to the ward, and looked at Rochard, and
ordered the night nurse to give him morphia, and again morphia, as often
as she thought best. For only death could bring relief from such pain as
that, and only morphia, a little in advance of death, could bring
partial relief.

So the night nurse took care of Rochard all that night, and turned him
and turned him, from one side to the other, and gave him morphia, as the
_Medecin Chef_ had ordered. She listened to his cries all night, for the
morphia brought him no relief. Morphia gives a little relief, at times,
from the pain of life, but it is only death that brings absolute relief.

When the day nurse came on duty next morning, there was Rochard in
agony. "_Cela pique! Cela brule!_" he cried. And again and again, all
the time, "_Cela pique! Cela brule!_", meaning the pain in his leg.
And because of the piece of shell, which had penetrated his ear and
lodged in his brain somewhere, his wits were wandering. No one can be
fully conscious with an inch of German shell in his skull. And there was
a full inch of German shell in Rochard's skull, in his brain somewhere,
for the radiographist said so. He was a wonderful radiographist and
anatomist, and he worked accurately with a beautiful, expensive
machine, given him, or given the field hospital, by Madame Curie.

So all night Rochard screamed in agony, and turned and twisted, first on
the hip that was there, and then on the hip that was gone, and on
neither side, even with many ampoules of morphia, could he find relief.
Which shows that morphia, good as it is, is not as good as death. So
when the day nurse came on in the morning, there was Rochard strong
after a night of agony, strong after many _picqures_ of strychnia, which
kept his heart beating and his lungs breathing, strong after many
_picqures_ of morphia which did not relieve his pain. Thus the science
of healing stood baffled before the science of destroying.

Rochard died slowly. He stopped struggling. He gave up trying to find
relief by lying upon the hip that was there, or the hip that was gone.
He ceased to cry. His brain, in which was lodged a piece of German
shell, seemed to reason, to become reasonable, with break of day. The
evening before, after his return from the operating room, he had been
decorated with the _Medaille Militaire_, conferred upon him, _in
ext