It was then that the lady in green arrived.
She came in one fine morning through one of the doors, like everybody else. On the other hand, she was not like everybody else: she was more like an angel, a queen, or a doll. She was not dressed like the nurses who worked in the wards, or like the mothers and wives who came to visit their wounded husbands and sons. She was not even like the women one meets in the streets. She was much more beautiful, much more majestic. She made one think of the fairies of one’s childhood, or of those splendid forms one sees on great coloured calendars under which the artist has written “Reveries,” or “Melancholy,” or “Poetry.” She was surrounded by well-dressed, good-looking officers, who attended to her slightest word, and who lavished on her the most extravagant compliments.
“Come in, then, Madame,” said one of them, “since you wish to see some of our wounded.”...
She made two steps into the room, stopped short, and said in a deep voice:
“The poor things!”
Every one in the ward opened his eyes and pricked up his ears. Mery put down his pipe; Tarrissant changed his crutches from one hand to the other, which, with him, is a sign of emotion; Domenge and Burnier stopped playing and pressed their cards against their bodies to hide them. Poupot did not move, because he is paralysed, but one could easily see that he was listening with all his might.
The lady in green went first to Sorri, the negro.
“Your name is Sorri?” she asked, reading his card.
The negro moved his head; the lady in green went on in a voice as sweet and melodious as an actress:
“You have come to fight for France, Sorri; and you have left your beautiful country—the fresh and smiling oasis in an ocean of burning sand. Ah, Sorri! how beautiful are the African evenings, at the hour when the young woman returns along the avenue of palm trees, carrying on her head an aromatic pitcher full of honey and cocoanut milk!”