“There’s no end to them,” said the hospital orderlies. And indeed there seemed no end to them. The wounded streamed in from all directions, in Indian file, in groups, or in pairs helping one another along. When the house was full we did not know where to put them. For the time being we packed them together outside, wherever there was a patch of shade. Poor lads! already exhausted with hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood, they had used up the last ounce of energy in making for our flag. “Orderly,” they would say when reaching the door, “do what you can for me!” Then, out of breath, they would slowly sink to the ground, with little cries like those of a sick child. More than one of us, at sight of this, had to wipe his eyes furtively.
The firing had ceased. All at once some one cried: “There they are!” A Prussian cyclist had in fact ridden by the gate, followed by the first patrol. They did no more than glance at the field hospital in passing. At this moment I was about to open the surgical instrument wagon to get something I needed. While we were all so busy, the officer of whom I have spoken above was standing two paces from me, his arms hanging by his sides. When he heard the words “There they are,” he was dumbfounded. The brown hairs of his thin beard were bristling on his pale skin. His cheeks were blanched; he stared at vacancy. He swayed upon his little legs. Having his back towards the gate he had seen nothing. But he had heard the words, “There they are.” He knew that he was about to be seized, and he thought that his last hour had come. He stood for two or three seconds, mute, pale, as if thunderstruck. Then, talking to himself, he said tonelessly, “They’ll slit all our throats!”
While the German Feldwebel, with Dutrex at his elbow, conducts the convalescents to their rooms, section by section, I return to the “salon,” and bury myself in my papers. All at once the door is noisily opened, and Dutrex, with his usual shortness of manner, insistently martial, in a state of cheerful exhilaration, ushers in a tiny man, corporal of the 146th of Toul. Shepherding, hustling, dominating with his great blustering voice, he pushes the stranger into my arms.
“Here’s a man for you!” I shake the little corporal’s hand. The first downy growth of beard is appearing on his face. The juventa intonsa of Euryalus. He has the callow air of a candidate for university honours. With thoughtful eyes, quietly obstinate behind glasses, he resembles my friend Bonifas.
Durupt arrives. Several others, attracted to the spot, form a circle round us. As one man, the cooks desert the “plutonic region”; Davit, the Hercules, and the painstaking Devèse seat themselves unceremoniously upon the ministerial table.
“Friend,” begins Dutrex, “we’ve brought you here before Riou because you look intelligent, restrained, judicious. Riou insists upon trustworthy news. Don’t exaggerate when you are talking to him. If you are a romancer, clear out!”
The little corporal smiles. I open the conversation with the usual commonplaces, asking him about his wound, where he was taken prisoner, his last battle, his impression of the Germans at the hospital, his name, what part of France he comes from. Then I put the great question:
“Have you any news of the war?”
His name is Lahire. He comes from Paris. He obviously has news of importance. In a quiet, rather husky voice, speaking jerkily with intervals of silence, he tells his tale simply.
“This morning,” he says, “at half-past seven, an artillery lieutenant with a wound in the leg arrived at the hospital. He still wore his sabre and his revolver, for he had been granted the honours of war. His coming made a great impression upon our little world of wounded, causing much more stir than the recent visit of the princess of Bavaria. In a trice every one knew of his advent, and he immediately secured an attentive audience.