Clerambault went at
once to see him.
On the bed he saw a man who might have been of any age. He lay still
on his back, swathed like a mummy, his thin peasant-face all wrinkled
and brown, with the big nose and grey beard emerging from the white
bandages. Outside the sheet you could see his right hand, rough and
work-worn; a joint of the middle-finger was missing--but that did not
matter, it was a peace injury. His eyes looked out calmly under the
bushy eyebrows; their clear grey light was unexpected in the burned
face.
Clerambault came close and asked him how he did, and the man thanked
him politely, without giving details, as if it were not worth the
trouble to talk about oneself.
"You are very good, Sir. I am getting on all right." But Clerambault
persisted affectionately, and it did not take long for the grey eyes
to see that there was something deeper than curiosity in the blue eyes
that bent over him.
"Where are you wounded?" asked Clerambault.
"Oh, a little of everywhere; it would take too long to tell you, Sir."
But as his visitor continued to press him:
"There is a wound wherever they could find a place. Shot up, all over.
I never should have thought there would have been room enough on a
little man like me."
Clerambault found out at last that he had received about a score of
wounds; seventeen, to be exact.
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