The New Book of Martyrs Part 11

"I am in a hurry; you are a man. There is just a little something to be done to you. Kneel down there and don't stir."

A few minutes later, Gautreau was on his knees, holding on to the leg of the table. His head was covered with blood-stained bandages, and Dr.

Boussin, chisel in hand, was tapping on his skull with the help of a little mallet, like a sculptor. Gautreau exclaimed:

"Monsieur Ba.s.sin, Monsieur Ba.s.sin, you're hurting me."

"Not Ba.s.sin, but Boussin," replied the old man calmly.

"Well, Boussin, if you like."

There was a silence, and then Gautreau suddenly added:

"Monsieur Ba.s.sin, you are killing me with these antics."

"No fear!"

"Monsieur Ba.s.sin, I tell you you're killing me."

"Just a second more."

"Monsieur Ba.s.sin, you're driving nails into my head, it's a shame."

"I've almost finished."

"Monsieur Ba.s.sin, I can't stand any more."

"It's all over now," said the surgeon, laying down his instruments.

Gautreau's head was swathed with cotton wool and he left the ward.

"The old chap means well," he said, laughing, "but fancy knocking like that... with a hammer! It's not that it hurts so much; the pain was no great matter. But it kills one, that sort of thing, and I'm not going to stand that."

XXI

There is only one man in the world who can hold Hourticq's leg, and that is Monet.

Hourticq, who is a Southerner, cries despairingly: "Oh, cette jammbe, cette jammbe!" And his anxious eyes look eagerly round for some one: not his doctor, but his orderly, Monet. Whatever happens, the doctor will always do those things which doctors do. Monet is the only person who can take the heel and then the foot in both hands, raise the leg gently, and hold it in the air as long as it is necessary.

There are people, it seems, who think this notion ridiculous. They are all jealous persons who envy Monet's position and would like to show that they too know how to hold Hourticq's leg properly. But it is not my business to show favour to the ambitious. As soon as Hourticq is brought in, I call Monet. If Monet is engaged, well, I wait. He comes, lays hold of the leg, and Hourticq ceases to lament. It is sometimes a long business, very long; big drops of sweat come out on Monet's forehead.

But I know that he would not give up his place for anything in the world.

When Mazy arrived at the hospital, Hourticq, who is no egoist, said to him at once in a low tone:

"Yours is a leg too, isn't it? You must try to get Monet to hold it for you."

XXII

If Bouchard were not so bored, he would not be very wretched, for he is very courageous, and he has a good temper. But he is terribly bored, in his gentle, uncomplaining fashion. He is too ill to talk or play games.

He cannot sleep; he can only contemplate the wall, and his own thoughts which creep slowly along it, like caterpillars.

In the morning, I bring a catheter with me, and when Bouchard's wounds are dressed, I apply it, for unfortunately, he can no longer perform certain functions independently.

Bouchard has crossed his hands behind the nape of his neck, and watches the process with a certain interest. I ask:

"Did I hurt you? Is it very unpleasant?"

Bouchard gives a melancholy smile and shakes his head:

"Oh, no, not at all! In fact it rather amuses me. It makes a few minutes pa.s.s. The day is so long...."

XXIII

THOUGHTS OF PROSPER RUFFIN

... G.o.d! How awful it is in this carriage! Who is it who is groaning like that? It's maddening! And then, all this would never have happened if they had only brought the coffee at the right time. Well now, a wretched 77... oh, no! Who is it who is groaning like that? G.o.d, another jolt! No, no, man, we are not salad. Take care there. My kidneys are all smashed.

Ah! now something is dripping on my nose. Hi! You up there, what's happening? He doesn't answer. I suppose it's blood, all this mess.

Now again, some one is beginning to squeal like a pig. By the way, can it be me? What! it was I who was groaning! Upon my word, it's a little too strong, that! It was I myself who was making all the row, and I did not know it. It's odd to hear oneself screaming.

Ah! now it's stopping, their beastly motor.

Look, there's the sun! What's that tree over there? I know, it's a j.a.panese pine. Well, you see, I'm a gardener, old chap. Oh, oh, oh! My back! What will Felicie say to me?

Look, there's Felicie coming down to the washing trough. She pretends not to see me.... I will steal behind the elder hedge. Felicie! Felicie!

I have a piece of a 77 in my kidneys. I like her best in her blue bodice.

What are you putting over my nose, you people? It stinks horribly. I am choking, I tell you. Felicie, Felicie. Put on your blue bodice with the white spots, my little Feli... Oh, but... oh, but...!

Oh, the Whitsuntide bells already! G.o.d--the bells already... the Whitsun bells... the bells....

XXIV

I remember him very well, although he was not long with us. Indeed I think that I shall never forget him, and yet he stayed such a short time....

When he arrived, we told him that an operation was necessary, and he made a movement with his head, as if to say that it was our business, not his.

We operated, and as soon as he recovered consciousness, he went off again into a dream which was like a glorious delirium, silent and haughty.

His breathing was so impeded by blood that it sounded like groaning; but his eyes were full of a strange serenity. That look was never with us.