ne arm, the other tied
up in an impromptu sling, we found a blue-coated soldier. He was the
image of despair, and though we gently questioned him, he only shook his
head from side to side without answering. Finally I sat down on the
bench beside him and gently stroking his well arm, pleaded that he would
tell us his trouble so that we might help him. He drew his head up with
a jerk, and turning on me with an almost furious look in his big black
eyes, he snapped, "Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what it is. My God, my wife and babies, shut up in
Valenciennes. It isn't this that's killing me," he continued, slapping
his bandaged arm. "It's only a flesh wound in the shoulder. But it's
the other--the other thoughts. I've seen them at their work, the pack
of cursed cowards! but if they ever touch my wife! Perhaps they have,
the dirty blackguards, and I'm not there to defend her. Curse them all!"

And he beat his fist on his knees in rage. Then anger, and agony having
reached paroxysm, his lips trembled, his mouth twitched, and brusquely
throwing his arm around my neck, he buried his head on my shoulder and
burst into tears.

The first instant of surprise over, it would have been stupid to be
offended. The circumstances were such that it was impossible not to be
moved.

I had never seen a man weep before; I never want to again. For a full
quarter-hour he sobbed like a child--this great sturdy fellow of
thirty-five, and through the mist in my eyes I could see that my
companion had turned her back on us and was fumbling for her
handkerchief in her pocket.

Then little by little the choking sound disappeared, his shoulders
ceased to heave and shake, and a moment later our soldier lifted his
head and blubbered an apology.

"Forgive me--you've done me so much good. I know I'm a fool, but it had
to come--I just couldn't stand it another minute--" and other similar
phrases, which we nipped in the bud by asking if he would like a cup of
hot soup, or come into the dispensary when we could bandage his wound.

"Anywhere where it's light. I want you to see her picture--she'd think
you're great."

And so before he would let us touch his wound, we had to feel in his
breast pocket and draw forth a wallet from which he produced the
cherished photographs.

At length we completed his bandaging and I left Madame Guix to add the
finishing touches and went to the kitchen where Soeur Laurent was
standing over a h