So then we have to devise a discreet method of presentation.
It takes some minutes. He invents romantic possibilities. He becomes flushed, animated, interested.
"Think," I say, "find a way. Give it to him yourself, from some one or other."
But Leglise is too much afraid of wounding Legrand's susceptibilities. He ruminates on the matter till evening.
The little parcel is at the head of Legrand's bed. Leglise calls my attention to it with his chin, and whispers:
"I found some one to give it to him. He doesn't know who sent it. He has made all sorts of guesses; it is very amusing!" Oh, Leglise, can it be that there is still something amusing, and that it is to be kind? Isn't this alone enough to make it worth while to live?
So now we have a great secret between us. All the morning, as I come and go in the ward, he looks at me meaningly, and smiles to himself. Legrand gravely offers me a cigarette; Leglise finds it hard not to burst out laughing. But he keeps his counsel.
The orderlies have put him on a neighbouring bed while they make his. He stays there very quietly, his bandaged stumps in view, and sings a little song, like a child's cradle-song. Then, all of a sudden, he begins to cry, sobbing aloud.
I put my arm round him and ask anxiously: "Why? What is the matter?"
Then he answers in a broken voice: "I am crying with joy and thankfulness."