be patient, my poor Gregoire."

He replies in a voice hoarse with pain and terror: "I can't help it."

I add, just to say something: "Courage, a little courage."

He does not even answer, and I feel that to exhort him to show courage,
is to recommend an impossible thing, as if I were to advise him to have
black eyes instead of his pale blue ones.

The dressing is completed in an atmosphere of general discomfort.
Nothing could persuade me that Gregoire does not cordially detest me at
this moment. While they are carrying him away, I ask myself bitterly why
Gregoire is so deficient in grace, why he cannot suffer decently?

The Sergeant says, as he sponges the table: "He's working against one
all the time." Well, the Sergeant is wrong. Gregoire is not deliberately
hostile. Sometimes I divine, when he knits his brows, that he is making
an effort to resist suffering, to meet it with a stouter and more
cheerful heart. But he does not know how to set about it.

If you were asked to lift a railway-engine, you would perhaps make an
effort; but you would do so without confidence and without success. So
you must not say hard things of Gregoire.

Gregoire is unable to bear suffering, just as one is unable to talk an
unknown language. And, then, it is easier to learn Chinese than to learn
the art of suffering.

When I say that he is unable to bear suffering, I really mean that he
has to suffer a great deal more than others.... I know the human body,
and I cannot be deceived as to certain signs.

Gregoire begins very badly. He reminds one of those children who
have such a terror of dogs that they are bound to be bitten. Gregoire
trembles at once. The dogs of pain throw themselves upon this
defenceless man and pull him down.

A great load of misery is heavy for a man to bear alone, but it is
supportable when he is helped. Unfortunately Gregoire has no friends. He
does nothing to obtain them, it almost seems as if he did not want any.

He is not coarse, noisy and foul-mouthed, like the rascal Groult who
amuses the whole ward. He is only dull and reserved.

He does not often say "Thank you" when he is offered something, and many
touchy people take offence at this.

When I sit down by his bed, he gives no sign of any pleasure at my
visit. I ask him:

"What was your business in civil life?"

He does not answer immediately. At last he says: "Odd jobs; I carried
and loaded here and there."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."