perpetually on his back, but only to lie and sleep on it after a
day of toil.

For man was not really intended to suffer with his miserable,
faithless body!

And his heart beats laboriously.

There was mischief in the bowel too. So much so, that one day
Carre was unable to control himself, before a good many people who
had come in.

In spite of our care, in spite of our friendly assurances, Carre
was so ashamed that he wept. He who always said that a man ought
not to cry, he who never shed a tear in the most atrocious
suffering, sobbed with shame on account of this accident. And I
could not console him.

He no longer listens to all we say to him. He no longer answers
our questions. He has mysterious fits of absence.

He who was so dignified in his language, expresses himself and
complains with the words of a child.

Sometimes he comes up out of the depths and speaks.

He talks of death with an imaginative lucidity which sounds like
actual experience.

Sometimes he sees it ... And as he gazes, his pupils suddenly