The first words that the newcomers exchange with their cot neighbours are not about their own hardships; they speak first, and before anything else, of France.
"How are things going down there?"
"All right. We'll get them."
Then the newcomers, worn out as they are, sink into feverish sleep, struggling sometimes for days between realities and the persistent nightmare of the visions that pursue them. That night in the room that was always so still, but that now seemed more feverish than usual, I heard a sound of smothered sobs. It was Number 25, a big, good-looking soldier, whom each day I had seen having his wound dressed, a real torture, without a word, and who was sobbing now with his head in his pillow, ashamed of his tears, but powerless to keep them back. I went to him and tried to question him, but the soldiers don't readily speak to you of the sorrows that touch their hearts the deepest and most nearly.
"Thank you, lady; don't bother yourself about me. I don't need anything."
"Is your pain worse, maybe?"
"I'm in pain, yes, terribly, but it isn't that."
"What is it, then? Won't you tell me?"
He denied me still, then, all at once, under the pressure of his grief, he said:
"Oh, yes, I do feel like confiding in you. I'll tell you what it is. The comrade who was waiting next to me till his bed was ready brought me news of the death of my best friend. He was in his regiment and was killed by his side. Oh, madame, he was such a fine fellow, so devoted and full of courage. We were brought up together. He was more than my chum; he was my friend."