The New Book of Martyrs Part 26

Holding up a candle, I take in the melancholy scene. We have to get Rochet into bed again, readjust his bandages, wipe up the fetid liquid spilt on the floor.

Rochet's lips are compressed. I stoop to his ear and ask softly:

"Why did you do this?"

His face remains calm, and he answers gently, looking me full in the eyes: "I want to die."

I leave the room, disarmed, my head bowed, and go in search of Monet, who is a priest and an excellent orderly. He is smoking a pipe in a corner. He has just had news that his young brother has been killed in action, and he had s.n.a.t.c.hed a few minutes of solitude.

"Monet," I say, "I think Rochet is a believer. Well, go to him. He may want you."

Monet puts away his pipe, and goes off noiselessly.

As to me, I go and wander about outside. On the poplar-lined road, in company with the furious rain and the darkness, I shall perhaps be able to master the flood of bitterness that sweeps over me.

At the end of an hour, my anxiety brings me back to Rochet's bedside.

The candle is burning away with a steady flame. Monet is reading in a little book with a clasp. The profile of the wounded man has still the pitiful austerity of a tortured saint.

"Is he quieter now?"

Monet lifts his fine dark eyes to my face, and drops his book.

"Yes. He is dead."

VIII

Why has h.e.l.l been painted as a place of hopeless torture and eternal lamentation?

I believe that even in the lowest depths of h.e.l.l, the d.a.m.ned sing, jest, and play cards. I am led to imagine this after seeing these men rowing in their galleys, chained to them by fever and wounds.

Blaireau, who has only lost a hand, preludes in an undertone:

Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur....

This timid breath kindles the dormant flame. Houdebine, who has a fractured knee, but who now expects to be fairly comfortable till the morning, at once responds and continues:

Marguerite! Marguerite!

The two sing in unison, with delighted smiles:

Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur Marguerite! Marguerite!

Maville joins in at the second verse, and even Legras, whose two legs are broken, and the Cha.s.seur Alpin, who has a hole in his skull.

Panchat, the man who had a bullet through his neck, beats time with his finger, because he is forbidden to speak.

All this goes on in low tones; but faces light up, and flush, as if a bottle of brandy had been pa.s.sed round.

Then Houdebine turns to Panchat and says: "Will you have a game of dummy manilla, Panchat?"

Dummy manilla is a game for two; and they have to be content with games for two, because no one in this ward can get up, and communication is only easy for those in adjacent beds.

Panchat makes a sign of consent. Why should he not play dummy manilla, which is a silent game. A chair is put between the two beds, and he shuffles the cards.

The cards are so worn at the corners that they have almost become ovals.

The court cards smile through a fog of dirt; and to deal, one has to wet one's thumb copiously, because a thick, tenacious grease makes the cards stick together in an evil-smelling ma.s.s.

But a good deal of amus.e.m.e.nt is still to be got out of these precious bits of old paste-board.

Panchat supports himself on his elbow, Houdebine has to keep on his back, because of his knee. He holds his cards against his chin, and throws them down energetically on the chair with his right hand.

The chair is rather far off, the cards are dirty, and sometimes Houdebine asks his silent adversary: "What's that?"

Panchat takes the card and holds it out at arm's length.

Houdebine laughs gaily.

He plays his cards one after the other, and dummy's hand also:

"Trump! Trump! Trump! And ace of hearts!"

Even those who cannot see anything laugh too.

Panchat is vexed, but he too laughs noiselessly. Then he takes out the lost sou from under his straw pillow.

Meanwhile, Mulet is telling a story. It is always the same story, but it is always interesting.

An almost imperceptible voice, perhaps Legras', hums slowly:

Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur.

Who talks of happiness here?

I recognise the accents of obstinate, generous life. I recognise thine accents, artless fles.h.!.+ Only thou couldst dare to speak of happiness between the pain of the morning and that of the evening, between the man who is groaning on the right, and the man who is dying on the left.

Truly, in the utmost depths of h.e.l.l, the d.a.m.ned must mistake their need of joy for joy itself.

I know quite well that there is hope here.

So that in h.e.l.l too there must be hope.

IX

But lately, Death was the cruel stranger, the stealthy-footed visitor.... Now, it is the romping dog of the house.