Why has Hell been painted as a place of hopeless torture and eternal
lamentation?
I believe that even in the lowest depths of Hell, the damned sing, jest,
and play cards. I am led to imagine this after seeing these men rowing
in their galleys, chained to them by fever and wounds.
Blaireau, who has only lost a hand, preludes in an undertone:
Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur....
This timid breath kindles the dormant flame. Houdebine, who has a
fractured knee, but who now expects to be fairly comfortable till the
morning, at once responds and continues:
Marguerite! Marguerite!
The two sing in unison, with delighted smiles:
Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur
Marguerite! Marguerite!
Maville joins in at the second verse, and even Legras, whose two legs
are broken, and the Chasseur Alpin, who has a hole in his skull.
Panchat, the man who had a bullet through his neck, beats time with his
finger, because he is forbidden to speak.
All this goes on in low tones; but faces light up, and flush, as if a
bottle of brandy had been passed round.
Then Houdebine turns to Panchat and says: "Will you have a game of dummy
manilla, Panchat?"
Dummy manilla is a game for two; and they have to be content with games
for two, because no one in this ward can get up, and communication is
only easy for those in adjacent beds.
Panchat makes a sign of consent. Why should he not play dummy manilla,
which is a silent game. A chair is put between the two beds, and he
shuffles the cards.
The cards are so worn at the corners that they have almost become ovals.
The court cards smile through a fog of dirt; and to deal, one has to wet
one's thumb copiously, because a thick, tenacious grease makes the cards
stick together in an evil-smelling mass.
But a good deal of amusement is still to be got out of these precious
bits of old paste-board.
Panchat supports himself on his elbow, Houdebine has to keep on his
back, because of his knee. He holds his cards against his chin, and
throws them down energetically on the chair with his right hand.
The chair is rather far off, the cards are dirty, and sometimes
Houdebine asks his silent adversary: "What's that?"
Panchat takes the card and holds it out at arm's length.
Houdebine laughs gaily.
He plays his cards one after the other, and dummy's hand also:
"Trump! Trump! Trump! And ace of hearts!"
Even those who cannot see anything laugh too.
Panchat is vexed, but he too laughs noiselessly. Then he takes out the
lost sou from under his straw pillow.
Meanwhile, Mulet is telling a story. It is always the same story, but it
is always interesting.
An almost imperceptible voice, perhaps Legras', hums slowly:
Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur.
Who talks of happiness here?
I recognise the accents of obstinate, generous life. I recognise thine
accents, artless flesh! Only thou couldst dare to speak of happiness
between the pain of the morning and that of the evening, between the man
who is groaning on the right, and the man who is dying on the left.
Truly, in the utmost depths of Hell, the damned must mistake their need
of joy for joy itself.