But he cannot balance himself well; he is afraid of falling.
Think of him, and you will be afraid with him and for him.
Sometimes he goes to sleep in broad daylight and dozes for a few minutes. He has shrunk to the size of a child. I lay a piece of gauze over his face, as one does to a child, to keep the flies off. I bring him a little bottle of Eau de Cologne and a fan, they help him to bear the final assaults of the fever.
He begins to smoke again. We smoke together on the terrace, where I have
had his bed brought. I show him the garden and say: "In a few days, I
will carry you down into the garden."
He is anxious about his neighbours, asks their names, and
inquires about their wounds. For each one he has a compassionate word
that comes from the depths of his being. He says to me:
"I hear that little Camus is dead. Poor Camus!"
His eyes fill with tears. I was almost glad to see them. He had not cried for so long. He adds:
"Excuse me, I used to see Camus sometimes. It's so sad."
He becomes extraordinarily sensitive. He is touched by all he sees around him, by the sufferings of others, by their individual misfortunes. He vibrates like an elect soul, exalted by a great crisis.
When he speaks of his own case, it is always to make light of his misfortune:
"Dumont got it in the belly. Ah, it's lucky for me that none of my organs are touched; I can't complain."