If Bouchard were not so bored, he would not be very wretched, for he is
very courageous, and he has a good temper. But he is terribly bored, in
his gentle, uncomplaining fashion. He is too ill to talk or play games.
He cannot sleep; he can only contemplate the wall, and his own thoughts
which creep slowly along it, like caterpillars.
In the morning, I bring a catheter with me, and when Bouchard's wounds
are dressed, I apply it, for unfortunately, he can no longer perform
certain functions independently.
Bouchard has crossed his hands behind the nape of his neck, and watches
the process with a certain interest. I ask:
"Did I hurt you? Is it very unpleasant?"
Bouchard gives a melancholy smile and shakes his head:
"Oh, no, not at all! In fact it rather amuses me. It makes a few minutes
pass. The day is so long...."