In her room, later on, in a cockroach wing of the hospital, she lay down, her cap and rosary on her bed table. The telegram did not satisfy her. As soon as she could she got up and wrote a detailed letter, writing on a battered leather portfolio that was a treasure of hers.
Would the letter reach Jean?
Since there was no electric current, the amputation had to be postponed: the emergency generator had no fuel.
Dennison's fever was 105° ... he could not eat or assimilate liquids.
Blanche's sixty-year-old restlessness forced her into the chapel where she knelt in her favorite pew. She prayed for his recovery and for those under her care: she named names: the list seemed to reach across France: she begged that the war come to an end, that mankind reach a state of harmony: harmony? Harmony, her subconscious asked. With all the wounded, the millions dead?
Dennison woke in pain and rang his buzzer.
Perspiration soaked his head: he knew his arm was worse: he must have help: in his panic he felt he must contact Jeannette, Uncle Victor, Aunt Therèse, his mother: he did not ask what could come of such a contact: he wanted to hear a familiar voice, wanted to grasp that somebody cared: somebody might know of some way to help!
A young nurse bent over him and asked him what he needed: her golden crucifix pointed at the "v" in her throat; her stack of hair was auburn: he knew he had never seen her before: eyeing her intently, his sight now clear, now blurred, he said:
"I want you to contact my uncle ... Colonel Victor Ronde ... please write down his name and address."
She wrote his name but Orville could not remember his Marseilles address: his mouth was open to tell her the Ermenonville address but he lost consciousness.