I went nearer to him, for it seemed to me that he was breathing. I had a few drops of the vivifying cordial given to him, and he then half opened his eyes and said, “Thank you.” He was lifted into the conveyance, but the poor fellow died from an attack of hæmorrhage, covering all the other wounded men with a stream of dark blood. Daylight gradually began to appear, a misty, dull dawn. The lanterns had burnt out, but we could now distinguish each other. There were about a hundred persons there: sisters of charity, military and civil male hospital attendants, the brothers from the Ecole Chrétienne, other priests, and a few ladies who, like myself, had given themselves up heart and soul to the service of the wounded. The sight was still more dismal by daylight, for all that the night had hidden in the shadows appeared then in the tardy, wan light of that January morning. There were so many wounded that it was impossible to transport them all, and I sobbed at the thought of my helplessness. Other vehicles kept arriving, but there were so many wounded, so very many. A number of those who had only slight wounds had died of cold. On returning to the ambulance 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, age 27. 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 had been forced in. 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 at his ease I asked him if he would like something to eat. “Yes,” he replied. “Well, my boy, would you like cheese, soup, or sweets?” asked Madame Lambquin. “Sweets,” replied the powerful-looking fellow, smiling.