The valet was a very humane and obliging fellow. He asked me to step into the salon, where a fire was burning already. I was forcibly struck by this proof of democratic condescension. Fancy his allowing a fellow with such a robber's look, who had unexpectedly intruded into the house, to enter the luxurious, polished, gilded salon of—his own wife!
The fire was burning in the grate, and I went up to it to warm myself, when the door opened, and, with quick steps, there entered—my wife. She had entered hastily, but, on seeing me she faltered, and stood motionless at the door.
Well might she start at my strange appearance; but, if I looked dreadful to her, her appearance was positively loathsome to me. I had not seen her for three months, and she had visibly changed since then.
To another man his wife looks charming in that condition, but to me my wife seemed perfectly disgusting, horrid, abominable! I cannot find a phrase to express the detestation that filled me as I looked at her.
"You have come away from the camp?" she asked, in a low tone.
"I have been discharged," I answered.
"You? How could that be?"
"They believed me to be a Prussian spy."
"Nonsense! I have read so much of your courage and daring, of the self-sacrifice which made you risk your own life to save that of others. The papers were full of praise of your magnanimous conduct."
"That's it exactly. They think a respectable surgeon has no business to risk his hide or exhibit sentiment. So they told me to pack off."