Another time Revaud’s leg was amputated. He had murmured when giving his consent: “I’d done my best to keep it, this old leg of mine! Well! well! So much the worse, so get on with it. Poor old thing!”
He burst out laughing once again; and no one has laughed, and no one will laugh again, as Revaud did that day.
His leg then was to be amputated. The noblest blood in France flowed once more. But it took place between four walls, in a little room white-washed like a dairy, and no one heard of it.
Revaud was put back to bed behind the door. He awoke, and like a child said:
“They’ve set me back quite warm and ‘comfy’ with this leg.”
Revaud had rather a good night, and when, on the next day, Mme. Baugan came into the room, he said to her, as he now was in the habit of saying:
“Fine, Madame Baugan. I’ve had a good night.”
With this, his head dropped on one side, his mouth opened little by little, and, without further remark or movement, he was dead.
“Poor Revaud!” exclaimed Mme. Baugan. “Oh! he is dead.”
She kissed his brow, and at once began to lay him out, for a long day faced her and she could not afford to waste time.