ome, be sensible, Lerondeau."

His eyes fill with tears at once. One day I was obliged to try "Monsieur
Lerondeau," and he was so hurt that I had to retract on the spot.
However, he now refrains from grumbling at his orderly, and screaming
too loudly during the dressing of his wound, for he knows that the day
I say to him "Be quiet, Monsiuer"--just Monsiuer--our relations will be
exceedingly strained.

From the first, Carre bore himself like a man. When I entered the
dressing ward, I found the two lying side by side on stretchers which
had been placed on the floor. Carre's emaciated arm emerged from under
his blanket, and he began to lecture Marie on the subject of hope and
courage.... I listened to the quavering voice, I looked at the toothless
face, lit up by a smile, and I felt a curious choking in my throat,
while Lerondeau blinked like a child who is being scolded. Then I went
out of the room, because this was a matter between those two lying on
the ground, and had nothing to do with me, a robust person, standing on
my feet.

Since then, Carre has proved that he had a right to preach courage to
young Lerondeau.

While the dressing is being prepared, he lies on the ground with the
others, waiting his turn, and says very little. He looks gravely round
him, and smiles when his eyes meet mine. He is not proud, but he is not
one of those who are ready to chatter to every one. One does not come
into this ward to talk, but to suffer, and Carre is bracing himself to
suffer as decently as possible.

When he is not quite sure of himself, he warns me, saying:

"I am not as strong as usual to-day."

Nine times, out of ten, he is "as strong as usual," but he is so thin,
so wasted, so reduced by his mighty task, that he is sometimes obliged
to beat a retreat. He does it with honour, with dignity. He has just
said: "My knee is terribly painful," and the sentence almost ends in a
scream. Then, feeling that he is about to howl like the others, Carre
begins to sing.

The first time this happened I did not quite understand what was going
on. He repeated the one phrase again and again: "Oh, the pain in my
knee!" And gradually I became aware that this lament was becoming a
real melody, and for five long minutes Carre improvised a terrible,
wonderful, heart-rending song on "the pain in his knee." Since then this
has become a habit, and he begins to sing suddenly as soon as he feels
that he can no longer keep silence.

Among