But what they always, always say, all of them, is a thing I think very beautiful.
"You suffer much, my child?"
"Pas trop, Madame."
Always it is, "Not too much."
But sometimes it is too much, and they cannot bear it.
And when I look at the bed that used to be his, I think of him lying there trying to smile and to say that his suffering was not too much.
And the new man in the bed says those same words, as if it were a little formula always an answer to the question I cannot help asking.
"You suffer much?"
"Not too much, Madame."
Sometimes they say, "Ca va aller mieux."