Perfectly Well
The patronne was standing by the bed of little 10.
I said, "It does not go well, little 10?"
He said, "Not too well, madame." His poor face was twitching, and his poor hands on the sheet.
The patronne said to me, "He has given us a bad night, that sort of a horror there." She stood with her hands purple on her broad hips and looked at him, and said, "Espèce d'horreur, veux-tu finir de nous en m——"
He laughed and I laughed.
It is dreadful, but I can bear it better like that. The little good sisters of other, different hospitals, the ladies of the Red Cross, the calm and tenderness and prayers, how strange it would seem.
Little 10 laughed.
"Oh, you laugh!" said the patronne, "and all the trouble you make us! Wait till you are well!" She said, "Attends que tu sois guéri, et je te f——trai un coup sur le citron."
Madame Marthe came with the hypodermic syringe and tubes and glasses in a basin. Her hands were trembling. I love her when her hands tremble.
The patronne said to me, "He is off for another little party of billiards."
That meant another operation.
I said, "You don't mind, little 10?"
He said, "Not too much, madame."
I said, "You'll be better to-morrow."
He said, "I'll be better to-morrow."
"Name of God," said the patronne, "of course he'll be better to-morrow."
Next day, when I tried not to cry because his bed was empty, she said to me, "It was no lie: he is better, isn't he?"