Sergeant Lecolle is distinguished by a huge black beard, which fails to
give a ferocious expression to the gentlest face in the world.
He arrived the day little Delporte died, and scarcely had he emerged
from the dark sleep when, opening his eyes, he saw Delporte die.
I went to speak to him several times. He looked so exhausted, his black
beard was so mournful that I kept on telling him: "Sergeant, your wound
is not serious."
Each time he shook his head as if to say that he took but little
interest in the matter, and tried to close his eyes.
Lecolle is too nervous; he was not able to close his eyes, and he saw
Delporte dead, and he had been obliged to witness all Delporte's death
agony; for when one has a wound in the right shoulder, one can only lie
upon the left shoulder.
The ward was full, I could not change the sergeant's place, and yet I
should have liked to let him be alone all day with his own pain.
Now Lecolle is better; he feels better without much exuberance, with a
seriousness which knows and foresees the bufferings of Fate.
Lecolle was a stenographer "in life." We are no longer "in life,"
but the good stenographer retains his principles. When his wounds are
dressed, he looks carefully at the little watch on his wrist. He moans
at intervals, and stops suddenly to say:
"It has taken fifty seconds to-day to loosen the dressings. Yesterday,
you took sixty-two seconds."
His first words after the operation were:
"Will you please tell me how many minutes I was unconscious?"