"You sleep too much, my poor Croquelet."
He answers me with his rugged accent, but in a feeble voice:
"Don't listen to him; it's not true. You know quite well that I can't sleep, and that you won't give me a draught to let me get a real nap. This afternoon, I read a little.... But it wasn't very interesting.... If I could have another book...."
"Show me your book, Croquelet."
He thrusts out his chin towards a little tract. I strike a match, and I read on the grey cover: "Of the Quality of Prayers addressed to God."
"All right, Croquelet, I'll try to get you a book with pictures in it. How do you feel this evening?"
"Ah! bad! very bad! They're thawing now...."
He has had frost-bite in his feet, and is beginning to suffer so much from them that he forgets the wound in his side, which is mortal, but less active.
IV
I have come to take refuge among my wounded to smoke in peace, and meditate in the shadow. Here, the moral atmosphere is pure. These men are so wretched, so utterly humiliated, so absorbed in their relentless sufferings that they seem to have relinquished the burden of the passions in order to concentrate their powers on the one endeavour: to live.