Réchoussat repeated in a shrill, strained voice: “I tell you, they’re
not coming after all.”
Corporal Têtard turned a deaf ear to this. He was sorting out his
stock on a table: lints, oil, rubber gloves reminiscent of the fencer,
probes enclosed in a tube like vanilla cornets, a basin of enamelled
sheet-iron resembling a big bean, and a bulging vase with a wide gaping
mouth, looking like anything at all.
Réchoussat affected an air of indifference. “They needn’t come if they
don’t wish to. Anyway, I don’t care.”
Corporal Têtard shrugged his shoulders. “But I tell you they will
come,” he said.
The wounded man obstinately shook his head. “Here, old boy! nobody’ll
come here. All those who visit downstairs never come up here. I’m only
telling you. I don’t really care, you know.”
“You may be sure they will come.”
“Really, I don’t know why I have been placed here alone in the room.”
“Probably because you must have quiet.”
“Whether they come or not, it’s all one to me.”
Réchoussat frowned to show his pride, then he added, sighing:
“You can begin now with your bag of tricks.”
As a matter of fact Corporal Têtard was ready. He had lighted a
candle-end and in one movement drew back the sheets.
Réchoussat’s body was revealed, extraordinarily thin, but Têtard
scarcely noticed it, and Réchoussat had for three months now been
fairly accustomed to his misery. He knew quite well that to have a
piece of shell in the back is a serious matter, and that, when a man’s
legs and abdomen are paralysed, he is not going to recover quickly.
“Feeling better?” asked Têtard in the course of his operation.
“Yes,” he replied. “Now it’s six o’clock and they haven’t come. Good
thing! I don’t mind.”
The corporal did not reply; with a weary expression he rubbed together
his rubber gloves. Riveted to the wick, the candle-flame leaped and
struggled, like a wretched prisoner yearning to escape and fly up alone
in the blackness of the room, and beyond, higher, higher, in the winter
sky, in regions where the sounds of the war of man are no longer heard.
Both the patient and the orderly watched the flame in silence, with
wide-open vague eyes. Every second a gun, far away, snapped at the
panes, and each time the flame of the candle started nervously.
“It takes a long time! You’re not cold?” asked Têtard.
“The lower part of my body does not know what cold means.”
“But it will, one day.”
“Of course it will. It’s dead now, but it must become alive again. I am
only twenty-five; it’s an age when the flesh has plenty of vigour.”
The corporal felt awkward, shaking his head. Réchoussat seemed to him
worn out; he had large sores in the places where the body rested on the
bed. He had been isolated in order that his more fortunate comrades
should be spared the sight of his slow, dragging death.
A long moment went by. The silence was so oppressive that for a moment
they felt their small talk quite inadequate. Then, as if he was
continuing a mental discussion, Réchoussat suddenly remarked:
“And yet, you know, I’m so easily satisfied. If they came for two
minutes only.”
“Hush!” said Têtard. “Hush!”
He leaned, listening, towards the door. Obscure sounds came from the
passage.
“Ah, here they are!” said the orderly.
Réchoussat craned his neck. “Bah! No, I tell you.”
Suddenly a wonderful light, rich in reflections of gold and crimson--a
strange fairy light--filled the passage. The wall in front stood out;
ordinarily as pale as December woods, now it suddenly exhibited the
splendour of an eastern palace or of a princess’ gown. In all this
light there was sound of happy voices and of laughter. No one could be
heard singing, yet the light itself seemed to be singing a magnificent
song. Réchoussat, who could not move, stretched his neck the more
vigorously, and raised his hands a little above the sheets, as if he
wanted to feel this beautiful sound and light.
“You see, you see,” said Têtard. “I told you they would come.”
Then there was a big blaze. Something stopped before the door: it was
a tree--a real fir-tree from the forests, planted in a green box.
There were so many Chinese lanterns and pink candles hanging from its
branches that it looked like an enormous torch. But there was something
grander to come: the wise and learned kings now entered. There was
Sorri, a Senegalese gunner, Moussa and Cazin. Wrapped in cloaks from
Adrianople, they wore long white beards made of cotton wool.
They walked right into Réchoussat’s room. Sorri carried a little packet
tied with ribbon. Moussa waved aloft two cigars, and Cazin a bottle of
champagne. The three of them bowed punctiliously, as they had been
told, and Réchoussat found himself suddenly with a box of chocolates in
his right hand, two cigars in his left, and a glass of foaming wine on
his little table.
“Ah, boys! No, no; you’re joking, boys.”
Moussa and Cazin laughed. Sorri showed his teeth.
“Ah! boys,” repeated Réchoussat, “I don’t smoke, but I’m going to keep
the cigars as a souvenir. Pass me the wine.”
Sorri took the goblet and offered it as if it were a sacred cup.
Réchoussat drank gently and said:
“It’s some wine! Good stuff!”
There were more than a score of faces at the door, and they all smiled
at the gentle naïve Réchoussat.
Afterwards, a veritable sunset! The wonderful tree receded, jolting
into the passage. The venerable kings disappeared, with their flowing
cloaks and their sham beards. Réchoussat still held the goblet and
gazed at the candle as if all the lights existed there. He laughed,
slowly repeating, “It’s some wine!” Then he continued to laugh and
never said a word.
Quite gently the darkness entered the room again, and lodged itself
everywhere, like an intimate animal disturbed in its habits.
With the darkness, something very sad insinuated itself everywhere,
which was the odour of Réchoussat’s illness. A murmuring silence rested
on every object, like dust. The face of the patient ceased to reflect
the splendour of the Christmas tree; his head sunk down, he looked at
the bed, at his thin ulcerated legs, the glass vessel full of unclean
liquid, the probe, all these incomprehensible things, and he said,
stammering with astonishment:
“But ... but ... what is the matter then? What is the matter?”