These two Frenchmen are named Salvette and Bernadou. They are
infantrymen from the same village of Provençe, enrolled in the same
battalion, and wounded by the same shell. But Salvette had the stronger
frame, and already he begins to grow convalescent, to take a few steps
from his bed towards the window.
Bernadou, though, will never be cured. Through the pale curtains of the
hospital bed, his figure looks more meagre, more languished day by day;
and when he speaks of his home, of return thither, it is with that sad
smile of the sick wherein there is more of resignation than of hope.
To-day, now, he is a little animated by the thought of the cheerful
Christmas time, which, in our country of Provençe, is like a grand
bonfire of joy lighted in the midst of winter; by remembrance of the
departure for Mass at midnight; the church bedecked and luminous; the
dark streets of the village full of people; then the long watch around
the table; the three traditional flambeaux; the ceremony of the
Yule-log; then the grand promenade around the house, and the sparkle of
the burning wine.
"Ah, my poor Salvette, what a sad Christmas we are going to have this
year! If only we had money to buy a little loaf of white bread and a
flask of claret wine! What a pleasure it would be before passing away
forever to sprinkle once again the Yule-log, with thee!"
And, in speaking of white bread and claret wine, the eyes of the sick
youth glistened with pleasure.
But what to do? They had nothing, neither money nor watches. Salvette
still held hidden in the seam of his mantle a post-order for forty
francs. But that was for the day when they should be free and the first
halt they should make in a cabaret of France. That was sacred; not to be
touched!
But poor Bernadou is so sick. Who knows whether he will ever be able to
return? And, then, it is Christmas, and they are together, perhaps, for
the last time. Would it not be better to use it, after all?
Then, without a word to his comrade, Salvette loosens his tunic to take
out the post-order, and when old Cahn comes, as he does every morning to
make his tour of the aisles, after long debates and discussions under
the breath, he thrusts into the Jew's hands the slip of paper, worn and
yellow, smelling of powder and dashed with blood.
From that moment Salvette assumed an air of mystery. He rubbed his hands
and laughed all to himself when he looked at Bernadou. And, as night
fell, he was on the watch, his forehead pressed eagerly against the
window-pane, until he saw, through the fog of the deserted court below,
old Augustus Cahn, who came panting with his exertions, and carrying a
little basket on his arm.