On that same evening, after M. Heloire had gone, I made another friend, M. Vampouille, a Belgian, the proprietor of a small pork-butcher's business, Rue de l'Arbre d'Or, Cambrai. M. Vampouille worked in the hospital during the day when his business would permit, took one night a week in the Salle cinq, and was to me a faithful and devoted friend, to whom I never can hope to express as I would my admiration and deepest gratitude. Vampouille himself would be much astonished to hear me express such sentiments, for the kindness which always took thought and trouble, the tact and common-sense which made his companionship so agreeable, are natural virtues of which he is wholly unconscious.
At the 106 we had no restrictions as to visits; at all hours of the day numbers of people used to visit the wards, many came out of curiosity, and such visits were for me at any rate a penance, chiefly owing to the prevailing mania for shaking hands. At times whole families, dressed all in deep mourning, would drift into the room and stand awkwardly grouped at the foot of my bed. "Allons ma petite Françoise, va dire bonjour à ce brave soldat," and the whole tribe would come, one after the other, to perform the ceremony of "le shake-hand." After this function followed the inevitable question, "Where were you wounded?"
My method of dealing with this question always amused Mme. Buquet.
"Où avez-vous été blessé?"
"A Caudry."
"Oui! mais à quel endroit avez-vous été blessé?"
"A l'entrée du village!"
"Oui, mais dans quelle parti avez-vous été blessé?"
"In the head, that is why I wear these bandages."
"Go, Françoise, say au revoir to the poor wounded soldier."