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Updated: May 17, 2025
At the end of an hour, my anxiety brings me back to Rochet's bedside. The candle is burning away with a steady flame. Monet is reading in a little book with a clasp. The profile of the wounded man has still the pitiful austerity of a tortured saint. "Is he quieter now?" Monet lifts his fine dark eyes to my face, and drops his book. "Yes. He is dead."
"Come, come quickly. Little Rochet has thrown himself out of bed." Holding up a candle, I take in the melancholy scene. We have to get Rochet into bed again, readjust his bandages, wipe up the fetid liquid spilt on the floor. Rochet's lips are compressed. I stoop to his ear and ask softly: "Why did you do this?"
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