He arrived the day little Delporte died, and scarcely had he
emerged from the dark sleep when, opening his eyes, he saw
Delporte die.
I went to speak to him several times. He looked so exhausted, his
black beard was so mournful that I kept on telling him: "Sergeant,
your wound is not serious."
Each time he shook his head as if to say that he took but little
interest in the matter, and tried to close his eyes.
Lecolle is too nervous; he was not able to close his eyes, and he
saw Delporte dead, and he had been obliged to witness all
Delporte's death agony; for when one has a wound in the right
shoulder, one can only lie upon the left shoulder.
The ward was full, I could not change the sergeant's place, and
yet I should have liked to let him be alone all day with his own
pain.
Now Lecolle is better; he feels better without much exuberance,
with a seriousness which knows and foresees the bufferings of
Fate.
Lecolle was a stenographer "in life." We are no longer "in life,"
but the good stenographer retains his principles. When his wounds
are dressed, he looks carefully at the little watch on his wrist.
He moans at intervals, and stops suddenly to say:
"It has taken fifty seconds to-day to loosen the dressings.
Yesterday, you took sixty-two seconds."
His first words after the operation were:
"Will you please tell me how many minutes I was unconscious?"
XII
I first saw Derancourt in the room adjoining the chapel.
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