Ah, let me still tell of my country's smile in her sorrow--so sweet,
and which is such a comfort to my heart. I have so much to tell that is
horrible.
Another time I conducted a celebrated visitor to a "tirailleur" (a
part of the colonial infantry who leave the ranks in action and fight
individually). This "tirailleur" had had his right arm amputated. I
said, "he is an Algerian." The wounded man looked at me reproachfully
with his great soft eyes, saying: "Don't say Algerian, madame, me
French, me give arm for France."
Another time I was with another Algerian; this one was about to die;
nothing could save him. I was trying to soften his agony. He let me go
on awhile, then suddenly stopped me with the melancholy childish accent
of the Arabs, saying: "Don't bother about me any more, madame. All
over. Me dead in two hours. Me just as happy as if get well. Thee write
my mother that." I wrote his mother. She replied: "He has served France
well. Allah has taken him to his breast."