“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!”