ashion.

Then, ceasing to exhort him to be calm with gentle and compassionate
words, I raise my voice suddenly and order the boy to be quiet, in a
severe tone that admits of no parleying...

Marie's agitation subsides at once, like a bubble at the touch of a
finger. The ward still rings with my imperious order. A good lady who
does not understand at once, stares at me in stupefaction.

But Marie, red and frightened, controls his unreasonable emotion. And as
long as the dressing lasts, I dominate his soul strenuously to prevent
him from suffering in vain, just as others hold and grasp his wrists.

Then, presently, it is all over. I give him a fraternal smile that
relaxes the tension of his brow as a bow is unbent.

A lady, who is a duchess at the least, came to visit the wounded. She
exhaled such a strong, sweet perfume that she cannot have distinguished
the odour of suffering that pervades this place.

Carre was shown to her as one of the most interesting specimens of the
house. She looked at him with a curious, faded smile, which, thanks to
paint and powder, still had a certain beauty.

She made some patriotic remarks to Carre full of allusions to his
conduct under fire. And Carre ceased staring out of the window to look
at the lady with eyes full of respectful astonishment.

And then she asked Carre what she could send him that he would like,
with a gesture that seemed to offer the kingdoms of the earth and the
glory of them.

Carre, in return, gave her a radiant smile; he considered for a moment
and then said modestly:

"A little bit of veal with new potatoes."

The handsome lady thought it tactful to laugh. And I felt instinctively
that her interest in Carre was suddenly quenched.

An old man sometimes comes to visit Carre. He stops before the bed, and
with a stony face pronounces words full of an overflowing benevolence.

"Give him anything he asks for.... Send a telegram to his family."

Carre protests timidly: "Why a telegram? I have no one but my poor old
mother; it would frighten her."

The little old gentleman emerges from his varnished boots like a
variegated plant from a double vase.

Carre coughs--first, to keep himself in countenance, and, secondly,
because his cruel bronchitis takes this opportunity to give him a
shaking.

Then the old gentleman stoops, and all his medals hang out from his
tunic like little dried-up breasts. He bends down, puffing and pouting,
without removing his gol