Oh! let us not go farther—­let us not go farther!  I interrupted the doctor’s examination, but how much sadder is this one!  We pity the diseases of the body; we shudder at those of the soul.

I was happily disturbed in my reverie by my neighbor, the old soldier.

Now I think of it, I seem always to have seen, during my fever, the figure of this good old man, sometimes leaning against my bed, and sometimes sitting at his table, surrounded by his sheets of pasteboard.

He has just come in with his glue-pot, his quire of green paper, and his great scissors.  I called him by his name; he uttered a joyful exclamation, and came near me.

“Well! so the bullet is found again!” cried he, taking my two hands into the maimed one which was left him; “it has not been without trouble, I can tell you; the campaign has been long enough to win two clasps in.  I have seen no few fellows with the fever batter windmills during my hospital days:  at Leipsic, I had a neighbor who fancied a chimney was on fire in his stomach, and who was always calling for the fire-engines; but the third day it all went out of itself.  But with you it has lasted twenty-eight days—­as long as one of the Little Corporal’s campaigns.”

“I am not mistaken then; you were near me?”

“Well!  I had only to cross the passage.  This left hand has not made you a bad nurse for want of the right; but, bah! you did not know what hand gave you drink, and it did not prevent that beggar of a fever from being drowned—­for all the world like Poniatowski in the Elster.”

The old soldier began to laugh, and I, feeling too much affected to speak, pressed his hand against my breast.  He saw my emotion, and hastened to put an end to it.

“By-the-bye, you know that from to-day you have a right to draw your rations again,” resumed he gayly; “four meals, like the German meinherrs—­nothing more!  The doctor is your house steward.”

“We must find the cook, too,” replied I, with a smile.

“She is found,” said the veteran.

“Who is she?”

“Genevieve.”

“The fruit-woman?”

“While I am talking she is cooking for you, neighbor; and do not fear her sparing either butter or trouble.  As long as life and death were fighting for you, the honest woman passed her time in going up and down stairs to learn which way the battle went.  And, stay, I am sure this is she.”

In fact we heard steps in the passage, and he went to open the door.

“Oh, well!” continued he, “it is Mother Millot, our portress, another of your good friends, neighbor, and whose poultices I recommend to you.  Come in, Mother Millot—­come in; we are quite bonny boys this morning, and ready to step a minuet if we had our dancing-shoes.”

The portress came in, quite delighted.  She brought my linen, washed and mended by herself, with a little bottle of Spanish wine, the gift of her sailor son, and kept for great occasions.  I would have thanked her, but the good woman imposed silence upon me, under the pretext that the doctor had forbidden me to speak.  I saw her arrange everything in my drawers, the neat appearance of which struck me; an attentive hand had evidently been there, and day by day put straight the unavoidable disorder consequent on sickness.