remis_, by the General of the region. Upon one side of the medal,
which was pinned to the wall at the head of the bed, were the words:
_Valeur et Discipline_. Discipline had triumphed. He was very good and
quiet now, very obedient and disciplined, and no longer disturbed the
ward with his moanings.

Little Rochard! Little man, gardener by trade, aged thirty-nine,
widower, with one child! The piece of shell in his skull had made one
eye blind. There had been a haemorrhage into the eyeball, which was all
red and sunken, and the eyelid would not close over it, so the red eye
stared and stared into space. And the other eye drooped and drooped, and
the white showed, and the eyelid drooped till nothing but the white
showed, and that showed that he was dying. But the blind, red eye stared
beyond. It stared fixedly, unwinkingly, into space. So always the nurse
watched the dull, white eye, which showed the approach of death.

No one in the ward was fond of Rochard. He had been there only a few
hours. He meant nothing to any one there. He was a dying man, in a field
hospital, that was all. Little stranger Rochard, with one blind, red eye
that stared into Hell, the Hell he had come from. And one white, dying
eye, that showed his hold on life, his brief, short hold. The nurse
cared for him very gently, very conscientiously, very skilfully. The
surgeon came many times to look at him, but he had done for him all that
could be done, so each time he turned away with a shrug. Fouquet, the
young orderly, stood at the foot of the bed, his feet far apart, his
hands on his hips, and regarded Rochard, and said: "_Ah! La la! La
la!_" And Simon, the other orderly, also stood at the foot of the bed,
from time to time, and regarded Rochard, and said: "_Ah! C'est triste!
C'est bien triste!_"

So Rochard died, a stranger among strangers. And there were many people
there to wait upon him, but there was no one there to love him. There
was no one there to see beyond the horror of the red, blind eye, of the
dull, white eye, of the vile, gangrene smell. And it seemed as if the
red, staring eye was looking for something the hospital could not give.
And it seemed as if the white, glazed eye was indifferent to everything
the hospital could give. And all about him was the vile gangrene smell,
which made an aura about him, and shut him into himself, very
completely. And there was nobody to love him, to forget about that
smell.

He sank into a stupor abo