"Fichu!" he said; "le laisser tranquille."
"But I am not going to let him die," she replied; "he is too young, too handsome, too brave, and he is an American."
He smiled, shook his head again and passed on to the next case. The girl was an American too, and these American nurses were always so optimistic, so faithfully persistent, she might pull him through, but—the smile of incredulity still lay on the lips of the médecin-chef.
The next day the young soldier was better. The leakage had not yet wholly ceased; but the wound was apparently beginning to heal. He was still dazed, and his pain was still too severe to be endured without opiates. It was five days later that he came fully to his senses, was able to articulate, and to frame intelligent sentences. He indicated to his nurse, Miss Byron, that he wished to have his mother written to.
"No especial message," he whispered, "just that I am here—have been wounded—recovering."
But the nurse had already learned from other men of Pen's company, less seriously wounded than he, who were at the same hospital, something about the boy's desperate bravery, and how his stern fighting qualities were combined with great tenderness of heart and a most loving disposition, and she could not avoid putting an echo of it in her letter to his mother.
Later on Pen developed symptoms of pneumonia, a disease that follows so often on an injury to the structure of the lungs.
When the médecin-chef came and noted the increase in temperature and the decrease in vitality, he looked grave. Every day, with true French courtesy, he had congratulated Miss Byron on her remarkable success in nursing the young American back to life. But now, perhaps, after all, the efforts of both of them would be wasted. Pneumonia is a hard foe to fight when it attacks wounded lungs. So an English physician was called in and joined with the French surgeon and the American nurse to combat the dreaded enemy. It seemed, somehow, as if each of them felt that the honor of his or her country was at stake in this battle with disease and death across that hospital bed in the old factory near Rouen.
It was late in February when Pen's mother and his Aunt Millicent reached Havre, and took the next available train up to Rouen. They had not heard from Pen since sailing, and they were almost beside themselves with anxiety and apprehension. But the telephone service between the city and its faubourgs is excellent, Aunt Millicent could speak French with comparative fluency, and it was not many minutes after their arrival before they had obtained connection with the hospital and were talking with Miss Byron.
"He is very ill," she said, "but we feel that the crisis of his disease has passed, and we hope for his recovery."