"I have received a letter from Italy, the contents of which will greatly interest you."
At these words she looked at me as coldly as if she had become an alabaster statue.
"Interest me?"
"So I believe. On the 20th instant there was a battle on the Mincio, at which your husband distinguished himself."
"Really?" said the lady mechanically.
("Really?"—In that tone? It was rather odd. However, I went on.)
"Nay, in the heat of the combat he was even wounded."
(I calculated surely on the dramatic effect of these words. I fancied that the tender spouse would leap to her feet, pale, ready to faint, wringing her hands, till at last, amidst sobs, the name of the adored husband would burst forth from her lips: "Oh! my Wenceslaus! Oh! my Kvatopil!" But she did not so much as turn her head round.)
"Indeed?" she said, with complete sangfroid.
Just as if it were an every-day occurrence for a beloved husband to be wounded in battle.