Lapointe and Ropiteau always meet in the dressing ward. Ropiteau is
brought in on a stretcher, and Lapointe arrives on foot, jauntily,
holding up his elbow, which is going on "as well as possible."
Lying on the table, the dressings removed from his thigh, Ropiteau waits
to be tended, looking at a winter fly walking slowly along the ceiling,
like an old man bowed down with sorrow. As soon as Ropiteau's wounds
are laid bare, Lapointe, who is versed in these matters, opens the
conversation.
"What do they put on it?"
"Well, only yellow spirit."
"That's the strongest of all. It stings, but it is first-rate for
strengthening the flesh. I always get ether."
"Ether stinks so!"
"Yes, it stinks, but one gets used to it. It warms the blood. Don't you
have tubes any longer?"
"They took out the last on Tuesday."
"Mine have been taken away, too. Wait a minute, old chap, let me look at
it. Does it itch?"
"Yes, it feels like rats gnawing at me."
"If it feels like rats, it's all right. Mine feels like rats, too. Don't
you want to scratch?"
"Yes, but they say I mustn't."
"No, of course, you mustn't.... But you can always tap on the dressing a
little with your finger. That is a relief."
Lapointe leans over and examines Ropiteau's large wound.
"Old chap, it's getting on jolly well. Same here; I'll show you
presently. It's red, the skin is beginning to grow again. But it is
thin, very thin."
Lapointe sits down to have his dressing cut away, then he makes a half
turn towards Ropiteau.
"You see--getting on famously."
Ropiteau admires unreservedly.
"Yes, you're right. It looks first-rate."
"And you know... such a beastly mess came out of it."
At this moment, the busy forceps cover up the wounds with the dressing,
and the operation comes to an end.
"So long!" says Lapointe to his elbow, casting a farewell glance at it.
And he adds, as he gets to the door:
"Now there are only the damned fingers that won't get on. But I don't
care. I've made up my mind to be a postman."