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It is sometimes a long business, very long; big drops of sweat come out on Monet's forehead. But I know that he would not give up his place for anything in the world. When Mazy arrived at the hospital, Hourticq, who is no egoist, said to him at once in a low tone: "Yours is a leg too, isn't it? You must try to get Monet to hold it for you."
They are all jealous persons who envy Monet's position and would like to show that they too know how to hold Hourticq's leg properly. But it is not my business to show favour to the ambitious. As soon as Hourticq is brought in, I call Monet. If Monet is engaged, well, I wait. He comes, lays hold of the leg, and Hourticq ceases to lament.
It's not that it hurts so much; the pain was no great matter. But it kills one, that sort of thing, and I'm not going to stand that." There is only one man in the world who can hold Hourticq's leg, and that is Monet. Hourticq, who is a Southerner, cries despairingly: "Oh, cette jammbe, cette jammbe!" And his anxious eyes look eagerly round for some one: not his doctor, but his orderly, Monet.
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