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Updated: June 14, 2025
Plaquet essays a little dry laugh which means neither yes nor no, but which reveals a great timidity, and something else, a great anxiety. "For Sundays, you can have an artificial leg. You put a boot on it. The trouser hides it all. It won't show a bit." The wounded man shakes his head slightly, and listens with a gentle, incredulous smile.
They would go to the utmost borders of honesty for a couronne de Brabant, or a demi-couronne, or a double escalin, or a single escalin, or a plaquet, or a livre, or a sous, or a liard, or for any the vilest denomination of their absurd coin, yet I do not believe they would go beyond the bounds of honesty with any but an English Milor: they are privileged dupes.
Then in an almost inaudible voice he replies: "I will never go out. I should be ashamed." Plaquet will wear a medal on his breast. He is a brave soldier, and by no means a fool. But there are very complex feelings which we must not judge too hastily. In the corner of the ward there is a little plank bed which is like all the other little beds.
"With an artificial leg, Plaquet, you will, of course, be able to go out. It will be almost as it was before." Plaquet shakes his head again, and says in a low voice: "Oh, I shall never go out!" "But with a good artificial leg, Plaquet, you will be able to walk almost as well as before. Why shouldn't you go out?" Plaquet hesitates and remains silent. "Why?"
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