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Updated: May 9, 2025
A number of those who had only slight wounds had died of cold. On returning to the ambulance I met one of my friends at the door. He was a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor who had been wounded at the fort of Ivry. He had been shot below the right eye. He was entered as Desire Bloas, boatswain's mate, age 27. He was a magnificent fellow, very frank looking, and a man of few words.
I was holding the poor fellow's hand in mine and trying to comfort him with the hundreds of consoling words that spring from a woman's heart to her lips when she has to soothe moral or physical suffering. "Ah, Mademoiselle," said poor Bloas, when the wound was finally dressed, "you gave me courage." When he was more at his ease I asked him if he would like something to eat. "Yes," he replied.
"Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?" asked Madame Lambquin. "Sweets," replied the powerful-looking fellow, smiling. Desire Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived near Brest.
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