RÉCHOUSSAT’S CHRISTMAS
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?”