Short Stories, vol 8 | Page 8

From the time some people begin to talk they seem to have an
overmastering desire or vocation.
Ever since he was a child, M. Caillard had only had one idea in his
head- to wear the ribbon of an order. When he was still quite a small
boy he used to wear a zinc cross of the Legion of Honor pinned on his
tunic, just as other children wear a soldier's cap, and he took his
mother's hand in the street with a proud air, sticking out his little chest
with its red ribbon and metal star so that it might show to advantage.
His studies were not a success, and he failed in his examination for
Bachelor of Arts; so, not knowing what to do, he married a pretty girl,
as he had plenty of money of his own.
They lived in Paris, as many rich middle-class people do, mixing with
their own particular set, and proud of knowing a deputy, who might

perhaps be a minister some day, and counting two heads of departments
among their friends.
But M. Caillard could not get rid of his one absorbing idea, and he felt
constantly unhappy because he had not the right to wear a little bit of
colored ribbon in his buttonhole.
When he met any men who were decorated on the boulevards, he
looked at them askance, with intense jealousy. Sometimes, when he
had nothing to do in the afternoon, he would count them, and say to
himself: "Just let me see how many I shall meet between the Madeleine
and the Rue Drouot."
Then he would walk slowly, looking at every coat with a practiced eye
for the little bit of red ribbon, and when he had got to the end of his
walk he always repeated the numbers aloud.
"Eight officers and seventeen knights. As many as that! It is stupid to
sow the cross broadcast in that fashion. I wonder how many I shall
meet going back?"
And he returned slowly, unhappy when the crowd of passers-by
interfered with his vision.
He knew the places where most were to be found. They swarmed in the
Palais Royal. Fewer were seen in the Avenue de l'Opera than in the Rue
de la Paix, while the right side of the boulevard was more frequented
by them than the left.
They also seemed to prefer certain cafes and theatres. Whenever he saw
a group of white-haired old gentlemen standing together in the middle
of the pavement, interfering with the traffic, he used to say to himself:
"They are officers of the Legion of Honor," and he felt inclined to take
off his hat to them.
He had often remarked that the officers had a different bearing to the
mere knights. They carried their head differently, and one felt that they
enjoyed a higher official consideration and a more widely extended
importance.
Sometimes, however, the worthy man would be seized with a furious
hatred for every one who was decorated; he felt like a Socialist toward
them.
Then, when he got home, excited at meeting so many crosses--just as a
poor, hungry wretch might be on passing some dainty provision
shop--he used to ask in a loud voice:

"When shall we get rid of this wretched government?"
And his wife would be surprised, and ask:
"What is the matter with you to-day?"
"I am indignant," he replied, "at the injustice I see going on around us.
Oh, the Communards were certainly right!"
After dinner he would go out again and look at the shops where the
decorations were sold, and he examined all the emblems of various
shapes and colors. He would have liked to possess them all, and to have
walked gravely at the head of a procession, with his crush hat under his
arm and his breast covered with decorations, radiant as a star, amid a
buzz of admiring whispers and a hum of respect.
But, alas! he had no right to wear any decoration whatever.
He used to say to himself: "It is really too difficult for any man to
obtain the Legion of Honor unless he is some public functionary.
Suppose I try to be appointed an officer of the Academy!"
But he did not know how to set about it, and spoke on the subject to his
wife, who was stupefied.
"Officer of the Academy! What have you done to deserve it?"
He got angry. "I know what I am talking about. I only want to know
how to set about it. You are quite stupid at times."
She smiled. "You are quite right. I don't understand anything about it."
An idea struck him: "Suppose you were to speak to M. Rosselin, the
deputy; he might be able to advise me. You understand I cannot broach