"Goodbye my love, goodbye.
The army is leaving.
And If I wouldn't leave too, it would be a cowardice.
And if I wouldn't leave too, it would be a cowardice."
The great room was full of patients.
Two rows of white metal beds had been placed on the two sides of the room; every bed was distanced from the other by a thin white linen curtain.
The black and white marble flooring was illuminated by the moonlight coming through the large windows which overlooked the park.
It was March and spring was just around the corner. In the meadow some daisies were already blooming, like white stars in the grass.
Various appliqués on the wall were diffusing a yellowish light in the room, rendering the shadows much darker than what they would have normally been.
Close to every bed there was a lit candle.
Everything was silent.
During the day, the army was bringing hundreds of wounded soldiers into what had become one of the largest military hospitals in Paris.
Most times, there was no time to completely help the soldiers on the battlefield so the surgeon had to perform an emergency surgery, interrupting it in order to try to save another young life.
Many of these poor soldiers had to face traveling with an amputated arm or leg. A lot of them died during the trip from the battlefield.
Others arrived alive to the hospital.
The luckiest of them were admitted on the main floor and, after some weeks or months, they were sent home to recuperate.
The most unlucky of them on the other hand, those who had contracted gangrene and/or could not be cured, were sent to another room.
Every week these same scenes were repeated.
A tired doctor would inform a patient that the war had cost him not only a leg or an arm, but also his life.
Some soldiers had the fortune to be reunited with a relative, a mother or a wife who could be with them during their last goodbye.
In the majority of the cases though, these valiant soldiers died alone.
The astonishment of learning that their life was ending was followed by depression. Then by uncontrollable crying.
At last, it was time for silence.
They called this room "the room of goodbyes".
Doctors had a rotating schedule to work in that hell. It was impossible to mentally and physically deal with it for more than two days at a time.
That evening, the schedule was covered by a young, handsome doctor.
He was standing beside the bed of a patient, attempting to delicately work on a leg wound.
Beside the bedside was placed a table with many medical instruments, a washbowl filled with cold water and various rags.
He proceeded methodically and silently; his golden eyes were totally absorbed in the job.
Dr. Carlisle Cullen had arrived many days ago, like so many others that had come to lend their precious aid.
He had been a surgeon for many years and his experience was extremely precious; no one was as devoted to working as he was.
He was the first to arrive in the early morning and the last to leave the hospital in the middle of the night.
The silence was abruptly interrupted by a tired voice.
"I feel it, doctor. My hour is coming."
The patient weakly raised an arm, trying to touch the hand of the doctor.
Dr. Cullen finished applying the medication to the wound and covered the leg with the bed sheet. He then sat down beside the man.
"Don't say that, Jaques, you're young. You'll survive," he answered.
"Please Doctor, you don't need to lie. I know how those things go. I've already seen it before," he said, pointing at the empty bed near him.
"They said the same thing to Lucas, but he died…"
The doctor's eyes were full of sadness.
"His injuries were very bad, yours instead…" he answered.
"He was a good friend," the soldier placed a hand on his eyes, trying to hide the tears "And now it is my turn."
"You cannot know that."
"So please tell me why you're here. At midnight. Perhaps you're waiting for Cinderella? No doctor. You're here for me." he smiled weakly.
The soldier put a hand on the bedside table, took a yellowing photo aged with time and placed it over his heart with tenderness.
"Only God knows if my Agnes will ever know that I died… we were near to marriage but..the war…" his voice was broken off, his eyes filled up with tears.
"What is death, doctor? Do you know?" he asked, looking in Carlisle's eyes.
"No," he answered.
"Nevertheless, you must have seen it many times."
"Too many times," he said.
"Do you believe we'll go to a better place, as they say?"
"I do not know, Jacques. But I hope so," he gently caressed Jacque's head while putting a rag dipped in cold water onto his hot forehead.
"And what if instead we'll find nothing but cold and darkness?" the soldier shivered, tightening the white sheet to his chest.
"I believe there's a better place. But it is not for me." he answered.
"Why? Did you do something bad in your life?"
The doctor hesitated.
"I will not have the time to tell it to anybody…"
"I don't deserve to live" he murmured.
But the soldier did not seem to have heard his last words.
Without a warning, he began to shake.
"Everything is getting dark, doctor. Please hold my hand," he said.
"It is my hour."
"I'm here, Jaques. I'm here," he whispered.
"Do you want me to tell her something?" Jacques asked in a whisper.
"To who?"
"A là mort..to the death."
"Tell her to come and take me too."
"I will say to it her. But please say to my beloved Agnes that I loved her. Please…"
"I will tell her everything, I promise."
Every breath of the soldier became more and more labored.
Then his eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling.
"Adieu Jaques. Bon voyage," the doctor said, closing the eyes of the young man.
Then he extinguished, with a single breath, the candle beside the bed.
He would have cried.
But he had no tears.
"Don't cry my beloved, perhaps I will return.
But if in battle I'll die, I will see you again in Heaven.
But if in battle I'll die, I will see you again in Heaven."