# Nêne/Part 1/Chapter 14
### CHAPTER XIV

THEY had taken him to the hospital where they had cut away all that the machine had left of his right arm. When he had recovered consciousness he had said to the doctors:
"You'd have done better to finish me off— You don't think I'm going to go on living like this?"
For three days after, he had led them a terrible dance, yelling savagely and without once stopping:
"I'll kill myself! I'll kill myself!"
But these evil thoughts left him when his temperature came down; now he was a very meek, very gentle patient, who wasn't getting well quickly, however, because his spirits were so crushed. The frightful wound had almost drained him of his blood. He lay there, as white as the sheets, and when he raised his head his blue eyes rolled in their sockets from weakness.
His mother had come to see him, as had his sister Fridoline, and his employer, Rivard. But these first visits had so exhausted him that the doctors had given orders to admit no one else. However, on the second Saturday they let Madeleine pass in and a nurse led her along the corridors whose unbroken whiteness sent a chill through her. Madeleine stepped softly behind the silent nurse and mumbled:
"It's a house of death— Poor big brother, how I wish you were out of here!"
When the nurse had shown her into the patient's room, she felt on the point of fainting. He had quickly drawn up the sheet to hide his mutilated shoulder and his eyes tried to smile at her from out his bloodless face.
She kissed him and for a long moment they looked at each other in silence. Then, in an effort to keep down the wave of feeling that threatened to overcome her, she said:
"I think you're looking fine, considering— You'll soon be all right again, Trooper."
He repeated very gently:
"Sister, call me John. Ever since I was a little shaver I've been called by that boastful nickname because I was so big and strong; but now my strength is gone and it'll never come back. I'm not complaining; it's my own fault."
"Not at all! It isn't your fault. What is to be will be—things are written a long time ahead."
"Yes—you're a good soul. You are the best of them all— If you could stay here I'd get well sooner."
With his left hand, which had grown white and thin, he took one of hers and played with her fingers.
A little colour came into his cheeks; he looked as if he were hunting for the right words to frame a daring request.
"Madeleine, I want to tell you something— I've been waiting for you so impatiently and I'm glad you came just to-day— There's something I want to say to you that I couldn't say to anybody else— Madeleine, at Chantepie there's a girl whom I've loved with all my heart for a long time."
"Violette, the dressmaker? Were you thinking I didn't know it?"
"Yes, Violette—a tall girl, with eyes just the reverse of yours."
Madeleine laughed.
"A pretty girl, then! But you needn't tell me what she's like; I know her. I saw her two years ago, at the Chantepie fair."
He fell back into despondency.
"It's two years to-morrow, as you say—since I spoke to her for the first time. I was to go there again this year, to the fair, and she was to look for me. She loves me a lot, and I know she's worrying herself sick about me now. Madeleine, I want her to know how much I've been thinking of her on my bed of pain."
"But don't you see, I couldn't possibly manage to go to Chantepie, on account of the children at home."
"I've thought of that— I've asked the nurse politely for a sheet of note paper and she gave me one. Here it is."
He hunted under his bolster and handed to Madeleine a pencil and a crumpled envelop.
"Please put it down that she's not to worry—that if I could only know that she's in good health and spirits, it would be balm to my heart."
Madeleine had taken the pencil, but she turned her eyes away so that her brother might not see the pity that had welled up in them.
Poor fellow! How he loved this Catholic girl whom Madeleine and her mother distrusted! She was far from worrying! She hadn't even once inquired about him, and if the accident to her betrothed had given her a shock, she certainly hadn't shown it.
As if this mutilation wasn't enough, nor the wretchedness against which he would now have to struggle all his life long!— On top of all he'd have to carry a heavy heart, too! How difficult life was!
"Poor big brother! You ought not to tire yourself thinking such things … Wait a few days— When you're stronger."
But he said with a pleading look:
"No, Madeleine!—right away, please! Here, take this tray to write on, so I can watch you do it."
She placed the paper where he wanted it and began, submitting every sentence to him.
"My dear Violette:
"I cannot write you with my own hand on account of the calamity which has fallen on me. I am having these words set down for me by a serious person from whom we need not fear any gossip. Violette, I have suffered very much, but I have always had you before my eyes, even when it was worst."
"Say that I'm counting on us getting married soon. The Insurance Company will pay me an income—that's what the doctor says—and as soon as I'm on my feet again I'll get a Government job."
"Oh! That's good news," said Madeleine; "I'm right glad. Then I'll put down: 'I think we'll have a-plenty for getting our household things with what——'"
"No! no! don't say that! I don't want you to tell her— Just say that I haven't changed my mind."
So she wrote:
"My intentions toward you are the same, for my heart will never change. If you like, we can be married right soon——"
She added, however:
"—as soon as I am able to earn my own living and yours, which will not be long, you may hope and trust."
They finished the letter with this:
"My dear Violette, I don't want you to grieve on my account. To-morrow is the day of the Chantepie Fair: I want you to go out as usual. If I could know that you were laughing and having a good time with the other girls of your age, I should be very glad.
"My dear Violette, you can write to me by the name of John Clarandeau, at the hospital. I kiss you in thought as I kissed you the first time, two years ago to-morrow, the day of the Fair at your place. And I sign myself——"
He took the pencil and traced his name labouriously, stopping at each letter. Then his head fell back on the pillow, still paler for the exertion.
Madeleine wrote the address:
"To Mademoiselle,
Mademoiselle Violette Ouvrard,
Dressmaker at Chantepie."
"Put 'personal' so that the postman won't give it to anybody else— That's right … Thank you.— Now don't forget to put it in the box right away.— I'm real glad you came to-day!"
The nurse opened the door:
"There's too much talking in here; that's enough for to-day."
"You're right," said Madeleine, "I'm going. I'll come again."
As she went out he called to her again, his whole being in upheaval:
"Don't forget now!—as soon as you're outside——"
Madeleine mailed the poor letter without delay and it got to Chantepie on Sunday morning, as it should.