Nothing could be more sad than
the nocturnal aspect of the vast ward of the hospital, where we will
introduce our readers. Along the whole length of its gloomy walls were
ranged two parallel rows of beds, vaguely lighted by the sepulchral
glimmering of a lamp suspended from the ceiling; the narrow windows were
barred with iron, like a prison's. The atmosphere is so sickening, so
filled with disease, that the new patients did not often become acclimated
without danger: this increase of suffering is a kind of premium which every
new-comer inevitably pays for a hospital residence. The air of this immense
hall is, then, heavy and corrupted. At intervals, the silence of night is
interrupted, now by plaintive moans, now by profound sighs, uttered by the
feverish sleepers; then all is quiet, and naught is heard but the regular
and monotonous tickings of a large clock, which strikes the hours, so long
for sleepless suffering. One of the extremities of this hall was almost
plunged into obscurity. Suddenly was heard a great stir, and the noise of
rapid footsteps; a door was opened and shut several times; a sister of
charity, whose large white cap and black dress were visible from the light
which she carried in her hand, approached one of the last beds on the right
side of the hall. Some of the patients, awaking with a start, sat up in
bed, attentive to what was passing. Soon the folding doors were opened.
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