miserable wretches suffered the torments of the damned.  Some, so weakened they could scarcely draw their breath, lay all day long upon their back, with tight shut, darkened eyes, like corpses in which decomposition had already set in; while others, denied the boon of sleep, tossing in restless wakefulness, drenched with the cold sweat that streamed from every pore, raved like lunatics, as if their suffering had made them mad.  And whether they were calm or violent, it mattered not; when the contagion of the fever reached them, then was the end at hand, the poison doing its work, flying from bed to bed, sweeping them all away in one mass of corruption.

But worst of all was the condemned cell, the room to which were assigned those who were attacked by dysentery, typhus or small-pox.  There were many cases of black small-pox.  The patients writhed and shrieked in unceasing delirium, or sat erect in bed with the look of specters.  Others had pneumonia and were wasting beneath the stress of their frightful cough.  There were others again who maintained a continuous howling and were comforted only when their burning, throbbing wound was sprayed with cold water.  The great hour of the day, the one that was looked forward to with eager expectancy, was that of the doctor’s morning visit, when the beds were opened and aired and an opportunity was afforded their occupants to stretch their limbs, cramped by remaining long in one position.  And it was the hour of dread and terror as well, for not a day passed that, as the doctor went his rounds, he was not pained to see on some poor devil’s skin the bluish spots that denoted the presence of gangrene.  The operation would be appointed for the following day, when a few more inches of the leg or arm would be sliced away.  Often the gangrene kept mounting higher and higher, and amputation had to be repeated until the entire limb was gone.

Every evening on her return Henriette answered Jean’s questions in the same tone of compassion: 

“Ah, the poor boys, the poor boys!”

And her particulars never varied; they were the story of the daily recurring torments of that earthly hell.  There had been an amputation at the shoulder-joint, a foot had been taken off, a humerus resected; but would gangrene or purulent contagion be clement and spare the patient?  Or else they had been burying some one of their inmates, most frequently a Frenchman, now and then a German.  Scarcely a day passed but a coarse coffin, hastily knocked together from four pine boards, left the hospital at the twilight hour, accompanied by a single one of the attendants, often by the young woman herself, that a fellow-creature might not be laid away in his grave like a dog.  In the little cemetery at Remilly two trenches had been dug, and there they slumbered, side by side, French to the right, Germans to the left, their enmity forgotten in their narrow bed.

Jean, without ever having seen them, had come to feel an interest in certain among the patients.  He would ask for tidings of them.