On returning to the hospital I met one of my friends at the door. He was a naval officer, and he had brought me a sailor who had been wounded at the Fort of Ivry. He had been shot below the right eye. He was entered as Désiré Bloas, boatswain’s mate, aged twenty-seven. He was a magnificent fellow, very frank looking, and a man of few words. As soon as he was in bed, Dr. Duchesne sent for a barber to shave him, as his bushy whiskers had been ravaged by a bullet that had lodged itself in the salivary gland, carrying with it hair and flesh into the wound. The surgeon took up his pincers to extract the pieces of flesh which had stopped up the opening of the wound. He then had to take some very fine pincers to extract the hairs which were mixed up inextricably in the torn mass of flesh. When the barber laid his razor very gently near the wound, the unfortunate man turned livid, and an oath escaped his lips. He immediately glanced at me and muttered: “Pardon, mademoiselle.” I was very young, but I appeared much younger than my age. I looked like a very young girl, in fact. I was holding the poor fellow’s hand in mine and trying to comfort him with the hundreds of consoling words that spring from a woman’s heart to her lips, when she has to soothe moral or physical suffering. “Ah, mademoiselle,” said poor Bloas, when the wound was finally dressed, “you gave me courage.” When he was more easy I asked him if he would like something to eat. “Yes,” he replied. “Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?” asked Mme. Lambquin. “Sweets,” replied the strong, powerful-looking fellow, smiling. Désiré Bloas often talked to me about his mother, who lived near Brest. He had a veritable adoration for this mother, but he seemed to have a terrible grudge against his father, for one day, when I asked him whether his father was still living, he looked up with his fearless eyes and appeared to fix them on a being visible only to himself, as though challenging him, with an expression of the most pitiful contempt. Alas, the brave fellow was destined to a cruel end, but I will return to that later on. The sufferings endured through the siege began to have their effect on the “morale” of the Parisians. Bread had just been rationed out; there were to be three hundred grammes for adults, and one hundred and fifty grammes for children. A silent fury took possession of the people at this news. Women were the most courageous, the men were excited. Quarrels grew bitter, for some wanted war to the very death, and others wanted peace.