"There's not much damage done on this side. We'll patch you up so well that you will still be able to make conquests."
He smiles, touches his bandage, looks at his mutilated arm, seems to lose himself for a while in memories, and murmurs:
"May be. But the girls will never come after me again as they used to..."
VIII
"The skin is beginning to form over the new flesh. A few weeks more, and then a wooden leg. You will run along like a rabbit."
Plaquet essays a little dry laugh which means neither yes nor no, but which reveals a great timidity, and something else, a great anxiety.
"For Sundays, you can have an artificial leg. You put a boot on it. The trouser hides it all. It won't show a bit."
The wounded man shakes his head slightly, and listens with a gentle, incredulous smile.
"With an artificial leg, Plaquet, you will, of course, be able to go out. It will be almost as it was before."
Plaquet shakes his head again, and says in a low voice: