her persons, of a certain absorption. It is perhaps rather a
vulgar habit, but I often feel impelled to whistle, especially when I
have a serious piece of work in hand.

One morning accordingly, I was finishing Vize-Feldwebel Spat's dressing,
and whistling something at random. I was looking at his leg, and was
paying no attention to his face, when I suddenly became curiously aware
that the look he had fixed upon me had changed in quality, and I raised
my eyes.

Certainly, something very extraordinary had taken place: the German's
face glowed with a kind of warmth and contentment, and was so smiling
and radiant that I hardly recognised it. I could scarcely believe
that he had been able to improvise this face, which was sensitive and
trustful, out of the features he generally showed us.

"Tell me, Monsieur," he murmured, "it's the Third Symphony, isn't it,
that you are... what do you call it?--yes... whistling."

First, I stopped whistling. Then I answered: "Yes, I believe it is the
Third Symphony"; then I remained silent and confused.

A slender bridge had just been flung across the abyss.

The thing lasted for a few seconds, and I was still dreaming of it when
once more I felt an icy, irrevocable shadow falling upon me--the hostile
glance of Herr Spat.

GRACE

It is a common saying that all men are equal in the presence of
suffering, but I know very well that this is not true.

Auger! Auger! humble basket-maker of La Charente, who are you, you who
seem able to suffer without being unhappy? Why are you touched with
grace, whereas Gregoire is not? Why are you the prince of a world in
which Gregoire is merely a pariah?

Kind ladies who pass through the wards where the wounded lie, and give
them cigarettes and sweet-meats, come with me.

We will go through the large ward on the first floor, where the windows
are caressed by the boughs of chestnut-trees. I will not point out
Auger, you will give him the lion's share of the cigarettes and sweets
of your own accord; but if I don't point out Gregoire, you will leave
without, noticing him, and he will get no sweets, and will have nothing
to smoke.

It is not because of this that I call Gregoire a pariah. It is because
of a much sadder and more intimate thing... Gregoire lacks endurance, he
is not what we call a good patient.

In a general way those who tend the wounded call the men who do not give
them much trouble "good patients." Judged by this standa