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Updated: June 1, 2025
Lying on the table, the dressings removed from his thigh, Ropiteau waits to be tended, looking at a winter fly walking slowly along the ceiling, like an old man bowed down with sorrow. As soon as Ropiteau's wounds are laid bare, Lapointe, who is versed in these matters, opens the conversation. "What do they put on it?" "Well, only yellow spirit." "That's the strongest of all.
"If it feels like rats, it's all right. Mine feels like rats, too. Don't you want to scratch?" "Yes, but they say I mustn't." "No, of course, you mustn't.... But you can always tap on the dressing a little with your finger. That is a relief." Lapointe leans over and examines Ropiteau's large wound. "Old chap, it's getting on jolly well. Same here; I'll show you presently.
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