There was mischief in the bowel too. So much so, that one day Carre was unable to control himself, before a good many people who had come in.
In spite of our care, in spite of our friendly assurances, Carre was so ashamed that he wept. He who always said that a man ought not to cry, he who never shed a tear in the most atrocious suffering, sobbed with shame on account of this accident. And I could not console him.
He no longer listens to all we say to him. He no longer answers our questions. He has mysterious fits of absence.
He who was so dignified in his language, expresses himself and complains with the words of a child.
Sometimes he comes up out of the depths and speaks.
He talks of death with an imaginative lucidity which sounds like actual experience.
Sometimes he sees it... And as he gazes, his pupils suddenly distend.
But he will not, he cannot make up his mind....
He wants to suffer a little longer.
I draw near to his bed in the gathering darkness. His breathing is so light that suddenly, I stop and listen open-mouthed, full of anxiety.