Here the old soldier unpinned the iron cross from his own breast, stooped and pinned it on to Bartek. The General's good humour was reflected in a perfectly natural way on the faces of the Colonel, the Majors, the Captains, down to the non-commissioned officers. After the General's departure the Colonel for his own part presented Bartek with ten thalers, the Major with five, and so on. Everyone repeated to him smilingly that he had won the battle, with the result that Bartek was in the seventh heaven.
It was a strange thing: the only person who was not really satisfied with our hero was Wojtek.
In the evening, when they were both sitting round the fire, and when Bartek's distinguished face was bulging as much with pea sausage as the sausage itself, Wojtek ejaculated in a tone of resignation:
'Oh Bartek, what a blockhead you are, because—'
'But why?' said Bartek, between his bites of sausage.
'Why, man, didn't you tell the General that the French are Germans?'
'You said so yourself.'
'And what of that?—'
Wojtek began to stammer a little—'Well, though they may be Germans, you needn't have told him so, because it's always unpleasant—'