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Updated: June 11, 2025
This afternoon, I read a little.... But it wasn't very interesting.... If I could have another book...." "Show me your book, Croquelet." He thrusts out his chin towards a little tract. I strike a match, and I read on the grey cover: "Of the Quality of Prayers addressed to God." "All right, Croquelet, I'll try to get you a book with pictures in it. How do you feel this evening?"
I smoke a pipe at once acrid and consoling, like this minute itself in the midst of the infernal adventure. Before going away, I think of Croquelet, the silent, whose long silhouette I see at the end of the room. "He sleeps all the time," says Mulet, "he sleeps all day." I approach the stretcher, I bend over it, and I see two large open eyes, which look at me gravely and steadily in the gloom.
And this look is so sad, so poignant, that I am filled with impotent distress. "You sleep too much, my poor Croquelet." He answers me with his rugged accent, but in a feeble voice: "Don't listen to him; it's not true. You know quite well that I can't sleep, and that you won't give me a draught to let me get a real nap.
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