"The skin is beginning to form over the new flesh. A few weeks more, and
then a wooden leg. You will run along like a rabbit."
Plaquet essays a little dry laugh which means neither yes nor no, but
which reveals a great timidity, and something else, a great anxiety.
"For Sundays, you can have an artificial leg. You put a boot on it. The
trouser hides it all. It won't show a bit."
The wounded man shakes his head slightly, and listens with a gentle,
incredulous smile.
"With an artificial leg, Plaquet, you will, of course, be able to go
out. It will be almost as it was before."
Plaquet shakes his head again, and says in a low voice:
"Oh, I shall never go out!"
"But with a good artificial leg, Plaquet, you will be able to walk
almost as well as before. Why shouldn't you go out?"
Plaquet hesitates and remains silent.
"Why?"
Then in an almost inaudible voice he replies:
"I will never go out. I should be ashamed."
Plaquet will wear a medal on his breast. He is a brave soldier, and by
no means a fool. But there are very complex feelings which we must not
judge too hastily.