"But a man can't be paralysed by a little hole in his back! I tell you
it was only a bullet. You must take it out, doctor. Take it out, and I
shall be all right."
Thus said a Zouave, who had been lying helpless for three days on his
bed.
"If you knew how strong I am! Look at my arms! No one could unhook a bag
like me, and heave it over my shoulder--tock! A hundred kilos--with one
jerk!"
The doctor looked at the muscular torso, and his face expressed pity,
regret, embarrassment, and, perhaps, a certain wish to go away.
"But this wretched bullet prevents me from moving my legs. You must take
it out, doctor, you must take it out!"
The doctor glances at the paralysed legs, and the swollen belly, already
lifeless. He knows that the bullet broke the spine, and cut through the
marrow which sent law and order into all this now inanimate flesh.
"Operate, doctor. Look you, a healthy chap like me would soon get well."
The doctor stammers vague sentences: the operation would be too serious
for the present... better wait....
"No, no. Never fear. My health is first-rate. Don't be afraid, the
operation is bound to be a success."
His rugged face is contracted by his fixed idea. His voice softens;
blind confidence and supplication give it an unusual tone. His heavy
eyebrows meet and mingle under the stress of his indomitable will; his
soul makes such an effort that the immobility of his legs seems suddenly
intolerable. Heavens! Can a man WILL so intensely, and yet be powerless
to control his own body?
"Oh, operate, operate! You will see how pleased I shall be!"
The doctor twists the sheet round his forefinger; then, hearing a
wounded man groaning in the next ward, he gets up, says he will come
back presently, and escapes.