"But you are wounded!" she cried out, as I took off my képi.
"A mere scratch, and already closed. It's nothing." And, throwing the rubber cloak from my shoulders, I stepped nearer to the gate.
"You have been decorated!" she said, pointing to the "légion d'honneur" on my breast.
"Trash!" I said, tearing it off, and with an angry gesture throwing it almost into the fire.
She ran up to me, and held my hand. "No! no!" she said: "I shall not let you! Leave it on your breast!" and, snatching it out of my hand, she pinned it in its place again.
"Well, let it be," I thought. At least there would be one spot on my body that was honourable. But it was time to change the subject. For a soldier coming home from the gory field of honour might speak to his wife of his wounds and his deserts, but I? As I was no real soldier, so my wound was no real wound, this badge of merit not really merited, and—my wife—was not really my wife. So I changed the subject, and, like a conscientious family physician, I questioned her about her health. My questions were purely professional, and she gave her answers in confidence, as patients usually answer the questions of their ordinarius. I advised her as to the best way of avoiding inconveniences connected with her present condition, and so on. After the consultation was over, I asked her if no letters had arrived for me during my absence.
"Only one—in the last day or two, and that has been opened."
"By whom?"
"By the police, I think. For a short time back all letters coming from foreign parts are opened by the police."
"Have you also read the letter?"