The wounded man was put on the litter, but, as he was German, I asked the subofficer to take all his papers and give them in at the Ministry. We gave the man the place of one of the convalescents, whom I installed elsewhere. I asked him his name and he told me that it was Frantz Mayer, and that he was the first soldier of the Silesian Landwehr. He then fainted, from weakness caused by loss of blood. He soon came to himself again, with our care, and I then asked him whether he wanted anything, but he did not answer a word. I supposed that he did not speak French, and as there was no one at the hospital who spoke German, I waited until the next day to send for some one who knew his language. I must own that the poor man was not welcomed by his dormitory companions. A soldier named Fortin, who was twenty-three years of age, and a veritable child of Paris, a comical fellow, mischievous, droll, and good-natured, never ceased railing against the young German, who on his side never flinched. I went several times to Fortin, and begged him to be quiet, but it was all in vain. Every fresh outbreak of his was greeted with wild laughter, and his success put him into the gayest of humors, so that he continued, getting more and more excited all the time. The others were prevented from sleeping and he moved about wildly in his bed, bursting out into abusive language when too abrupt a movement intensified his suffering. The unfortunate fellow had had his sciatic nerve torn by a bullet, and he had to endure the most atrocious pain. After my third fruitless appeal for silence, I ordered the two men attendants to carry him into a room where he would be alone. He sent for me, and when I went to him, promised to behave well all night long. I therefore countermanded the order I had given, and he kept his word. The following day I had Frantz Mayer carried into a room where there was a young Breton who had had his skull fractured by the bursting of a shell, and therefore needed the utmost tranquillity. One of my friends, who spoke German very well, came to see whether the Silesian wanted anything. The wounded man’s face lighted up on hearing his own language and then, turning to me, he said: “I understand French quite well, madame, and if I listened calmly to the horrors poured forth by your French soldier it was because I know that you cannot hold out two days longer, and I can understand his exasperation.” “And why do you think that we cannot hold out?” “Because I know that you are reduced to eating rats.” Dr. Duchesne had just arrived, and he was dressing the horrible wound which the patient had above his thigh. “Well,” he said, “my friend, as soon as your fever has gone down you shall eat an excellent wing of chicken.” The German shrugged his shoulders and the doctor continued: “Meanwhile drink this, and tell me what you think of it.”