The peasant put out his hand and then walked away, with his back bent in two. He sat down in a corner of the drawing-room. Poussière also huddled into a chair, took a piece of bread from his pocket, broke it and gave half to Saboureux, as though he thought it only natural to share what he had with the man who had nothing left.
"Here's Duvauchel, sir!" announced a rifleman. "Here's Duvauchel!"
The staircase was too narrow and they had to bring the stretcher round by the garden. The captain ran to meet the wounded man, who made an effort to stand on his legs:
"What's up, Duvauchel? Are you hit?"
"Not I, sir, not I," said the man, whose face was livid and his eyes burning with fever. "A cherry-stone tickled my shoulder, by way of a lark. It's nothing...."
"But the blood's flowing...."
"It's nothing, I tell you, sir.... I know all about it.... Saw plenty of it as a greaser!... It won't show in five minutes ... and then I'm off...."
"Oh, of course, I forgot, you're deserting!..."
"Rather! The comrades are waiting for me...."
"Then begin by getting your wound dressed...."