But I will not let all your sufferings be lost in the abyss. And
so I record them thus at length.

Lerondeau has been brought down into the garden. I find him there,
stretched out on a cane chair, with a little kepi pulled down over
his eyes, to shade them from the first spring sunshine.

He talks a little, smokes a good deal, and laughs more.

I look at his leg, but he hardly ever looks at it himself; he no
longer feels it.

He will forget it even more utterly after a while, and he will
live as if it were natural enough for a man to live with a stiff,
distorted limb.

Forget your leg, forget your sufferings, Lerondeau. But the world
must not forget them.

And I leave Marie sitting in the sun, with a fine new pink colour
in his freckled cheeks.

Carre died early this morning. Lerondeau leaves us to-morrow.





MEMORIES OF THE MARTYRS