Then he answers in a broken voice: "I am crying with joy and
thankfulness."
Oh! I did not expect so much. But I am very happy, much comforted. I
kiss him, he kisses me, and I think I cried a little too.
I have wrapped him in a flannel dressing-gown, and I carry him in my
arms. I go down the steps to the park very carefully, like a mother
carrying her new-born babe for the first time, and I call out: "An
arm-chair! An arm-chair."
He clings to my neck as I walk, and says in some confusion:
"I shall tire you."
No indeed! I am too well pleased. I would not let any one take my place.
The arm-chair has been set under the trees, near a grove. I deposit
Leglise among the cushions. They bring him a kepi. He breathes the scent
of green things, of the newly mown lawns, of the warm gravel. He looks
at the facade of the mansion, and says:
"I had not even seen the place where I very nearly died."
All the wounded who are walking about come and visit him; they almost
seem to be paying him homage. He talks to them with a cordial authority.
Is he not the chief among them, in virtue of his sufferings and his
sacrifice?
Some one in the ward was talking this morning of love and marriage, and
a home.
I glanced at Leglise now and then; he seemed to be dreaming and he
murmured:
"Oh, for me, now..."
Then I told him something I knew: I know young girls who have sworn to
marry only a mutilated man. Well, we must believe in the vows of these
young girls. France is a country richer in warmth of heart than in any
other virtue. It is a blessed duty to give happiness to those who have
sacrificed so much. And a thousand hearts, the generous hearts of women,
applaud me at this moment.