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Now Lecolle is better; he feels better without much exuberance, with a seriousness which knows and foresees the bufferings of Fate. Lecolle was a stenographer "in life." We are no longer "in life," but the good stenographer retains his principles. When his wounds are dressed, he looks carefully at the little watch on his wrist.
Sergeant Lecolle is distinguished by a huge black beard, which fails to give a ferocious expression to the gentlest face in the world. He arrived the day little Delporte died, and scarcely had he emerged from the dark sleep when, opening his eyes, he saw Delporte die. I went to speak to him several times.
Lecolle is too nervous; he was not able to close his eyes, and he saw Delporte dead, and he had been obliged to witness all Delporte's death agony; for when one has a wound in the right shoulder, one can only lie upon the left shoulder. The ward was full, I could not change the sergeant's place, and yet I should have liked to let him be alone all day with his own pain.
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