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Updated: May 31, 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.
Since then, he has written to us, "business letters," prudent letters which he signs "a poor mutilated fellow." Lapointe and Ropiteau always meet in the dressing ward. Ropiteau is brought in on a stretcher, and Lapointe arrives on foot, jauntily, holding up his elbow, which is going on "as well as possible."
It's red, the skin is beginning to grow again. But it is thin, very thin." Lapointe sits down to have his dressing cut away, then he makes a half turn towards Ropiteau. "You see getting on famously." Ropiteau admires unreservedly. "Yes, you're right. It looks first-rate." "And you know... such a beastly mess came out of it."
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