The monotony of her work in the hospital finally deadened her apprehension of the coming battle; but it dulled no other thoughts. Her little round of life was made up of petty duties and interests that were narrowing to both body and mind. She had the same wounds to dress each day; the same physic to administer; the same complaints to hear; the same jokes to listen to—some of them not at all clean; the same faces to see and voices to hear. Oh, yes! her work at the New York hospital had been vastly more interesting, had had more variety.
Yet a war hospital is so much cleaner than a hospital in time of peace. Here there were none of the foul diseases which came under her care while she was a probationer. And there were no old people doddering to their graves, full of the ills that come with advancing years.
"I wish you might see me and my children now, Tante," wrote Belinda to Aunt Roberta. "The ward is spick and span. There is a trophy of flags draped at the head, which all the blessés face. When I had arranged this and hung branches of bright-hued autumn leaves over each window (and bribed two of the orderlies to wash those windows till the panes shone!) my little infirmier of the harelip marched proudly in with a small silk American flag which he had secured from one of the ambulanciers from New York. This he placed up with my arrangement of banners and the whole ward applauded—that is, all those of the poor fellows who possess their full complement of hands and can applaud.
"It made my eyes sting. Not so much because of the Stars and Stripes, perhaps—although to a full-blown American I suppose it is a comforting sight—but at the thought expressed. My queer little infirmier, as well as my wounded, have learned through these weeks to love me.
"If you think the furnished flat on the Rue di Rivoli something of a cross, dear Tante, I wish you could see our makeshifts here. And the room I have to sleep in at the other end of the village—quite fifteen minutes' walk.
"Old Minerva, the aged dame is called with whom I lodge. She remembers '70 of course, and is never through talking about it. Then the Germans marched by twice triumphant—going to Paris and returning.
"'But it is not so this time—the sales embusqués! They strut by quite as grand as before,'—she points south, to Paris—'but they come back on the run! Ça y est, maintenant! Ça y est!' and she smiles a toothless but delighted smile.
"She does well by me, does Minerva. When I have made my toilet by six o'clock (and now it is still pitch dark at that hour) she has ready a huge bowl of coffee, bread and butter, with sometimes a baked apple or some other compote.
"I walk briskly to the hospital. The sentinel at the gate salutes me, for know you, dear Tante, I am a real officer of the French army—I wear the insignia, A. D. F. and a bar, beside my croix rouge. Erard is sure to be brushing out the entrance of Salle III and welcomes me with his crooked smile.