Good-bye, poor Gregoire. I cross the ward and go to sit down by
Auger.
Auger is busy writing up his "book."
It is a big ledger some one has given him, in which he notes the
important events of his life.
Auger writes a round schoolboy hand. In fact, he can just write
sufficiently well for his needs, I might almost say for his
pleasure.
"Would you care to look at my book?" he says, and he hands it to
me with the air of a man who has no secrets.
Auger receives many letters, and he copies them out carefully,
especially when they are fine letters, full of generous
sentiments. His lieutenant, for instance, wrote him a remarkable
letter.
He also copies into his book the letters he writes to his wife and
his little girl. Then he notes the incidents of the day: "Wound
dressed at 10 o'clock. The pus is diminishing. After dinner Madame
la Princesse Moreau paid us a visit, and distributed caps all
round; I got a fine green one. The little chap who had such a bad
wound in the belly died at 2 o'clock. ..."
Auger closes his book and puts it back under his bolster.
He has a face that it does one good to look at. His complexion is
warm and fresh; his hair stiff and rather curly. He has a youthful
moustache, a well-shaped chin, with a lively dimple in the middle,
and eyes which seem to be looking out on a smiling landscape, gay
with sunshine and running waters.
"I am getting on splendidly," he says with great satisfaction.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125