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 snatched 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 Hell been painted as a place of hopeless torture and eternal
lamentation?

I believe that even in the lowest depths of Hell, the damned 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 Chasseur 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 passed 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 ha