"What is the trouble with you?" he asks of the first.
"A carbuncle."
"Ah! and you?"
"Dysentery."
"Ah! and you?"
"A bubo."
"But in that case you have not been wounded during the war?"
"Not the least in the world."
"Very well! You can take up your knapsacks again. The archbishop gives up the beds of his seminarists only to the wounded."
I pack into my knapsack again all the knickknacks that I had taken out, and we are off again, willy-nilly, for the city hospital. There was no more room there. In vain the sisters contrive to squeeze the iron beds together, the wards are full. Worn out by all these delays, I seize one mattress, Francis takes another, and we go and stretch ourselves in the garden on a great grass-plot.