And you, my friend, a half turn to the right, to the right, I said, and there we are…’

I was holding the mattress with both hands, grinding my teeth, sweat running down my face.

‘My friend, this isn’t going to be easy.’

‘I can see that.’

‘There you are. Now, dear, let go of the leg and take hold of the pillow. Bring up the chair and put the pillow on top. Too close… a bit further away . . Friend, give me your hand and hold me tight. You, dear, go between the bed and the wall and hold him under the arms. Marvellous. Neighbour, is there anything left in that bottle?’

‘No.’

‘Come here and take your wife’s place so she can get another one… Good, good, fill it up… Woman, leave your man where he is and come round next to me.’

The woman again called one of her children.

‘Damnation, I’ve already told you, a child is not what we need. Kneel down and put your hand under the calf. You’re trembling, my dear, as if you’d been up to no good. Courage! Left hand under the bottom of the thigh, there above the bandage… very good…’

And then the seams were cut, the bandages unrolled, the dressing taken off and my wound uncovered. The surgeon felt above it, below it and all round it and every time he touched me he said: ‘The ignorant fool! The ass! The lout! And he thinks he’s a surgeon! A leg like this, cut it off? It’ll last as long as the other, take my word for it.’

‘I’ll get better?’

‘I’ve cured worse than you.’

‘I’ll walk?’

‘You’ll walk.’

‘Without a limp?’

‘That’s another matter. Devil take it, my friend, what does it matter how you walk, isn’t it enough for you that I’ve saved your leg? Anyway if you limp it won’t be much. Do you like dancing?’

‘A lot.’

‘If you walk a little less well, you’ll dance all the better. My dear, the warmed wine… no, I’ll have the other one first. Just one more little glass and our bandage will be the better for it.’

He drank and they brought over the warmed wine, cleansed and dressed my wound, bandaged me up, laid me out on the bed again and told me to sleep if I could. They drew the curtains around my bed, finished off the bottle they had started, brought up another and the conference between my host and hostess and the surgeon started again.

PEASANT: Friend, will it be for long?

SURGEON: Very long… Here’s to you, friend.

PEASANT: But how long? A month?

SURGEON: A month! Let’s say two, three, four, who knows? The kneecap is damaged, the femur, the tibia… Here’s to you, my dear.

PEASANT: Four months! Saints preserve us! Why take him in here? What the devil was she doing at the door?

WIFE: My friend, you’re off again. That’s not what you promised me last night. But just wait. You’ll see.

PEASANT: But tell me, what are we going to do with this man? It wouldn’t be so serious if it weren’t such a bad year.

WIFE: If you wanted I could go to the parish priest.

PEASANT: If you set foot in there I’ll beat you black and blue.

SURGEON: Why not, my friend? My wife goes there.

PEASANT: Well, that’s your business.

SURGEON: Here’s to my god-daughter. How’s she keeping?

WIFE: Fine.

SURGEON: Come along, my friend. Here’s to our wives, they’re both good women.

PEASANT: Yours is more prudent. She would never have been stupid enough to…

WIFE: But there are always the Sisters of Charity.

SURGEON: Ah! My dear! A man, a man go to the Sisters of Charity! There’s just one little problem about that, and it’s not all that much longer than a finger… Let’s drink to the sisters, they’re good girls.

WIFE: What little problem?

SURGEON: Your husband doesn’t want you to go to the parish priest and my wife won’t allow me anywhere near the sisters… well, my friend, another drink, perhaps that will give us the answer. Have you questioned this man? He is perhaps not without means himself?

PEASANT: A soldier?

SURGEON: Well, a soldier’s always got a father and mother, brothers, sisters, relations, friends, someone in the world… Let’s have another drink. Leave me with him and let me see what I can sort out.

And that was word for word the conversation between the surgeon and Jacques’ host and hostess. But what a different complexion could I not have put on the matter by introducing a villain among all these good people. Jacques would have been seen, or rather you would have seen Jacques, on the point of being pulled out of his bed, thrown into the highroad or even a ditch.

– Why not killed?

Killed, no. I would easily have been able to call someone to his assistance. That someone could have been a soldier from his company but that would have stunk to high heaven of Cleveland.9 Truth, truth.

– Truth, you tell me, is often cold, ordinary and dull.