“Is it you, Alexander?”
“Yes, yes,” he replied; “make haste
and open the door.”
As soon as she had done so, she threw herself into
his arms, exclaiming:
“Oh, what a fright! What a surprise!
What a pleasure!”
He began to undress himself methodically, as he did
everything, and took from a chair his overcoat, which
he was in the habit of hanging up in the hall.
But suddenly he remained motionless, struck dumb with
astonishment—there was a red ribbon in the
buttonhole:
“Why,” he stammered, “this—this—this
overcoat has got the ribbon in it!”
In a second, his wife threw herself on him, and, taking
it from his hands, she said:
“No! you have made a mistake—give
it to me.”
But he still held it by one of the sleeves, without
letting it go, repeating in a half-dazed manner:
“Oh! Why? Just explain—Whose
overcoat is it? It is not mine, as it has the
Legion of Honor on it.”
She tried to take it from him, terrified and hardly
able to say:
“Listen—listen! Give it to me!
I must not tell you! It is a secret. Listen
to me!”
But he grew angry and turned pale.
“I want to know how this overcoat comes to be
here? It does not belong to me.”
Then she almost screamed at him:
“Yes, it does; listen! Swear to me—well—you
are decorated!”
She did not intend to joke at his expense.
He was so overcome that he let the overcoat fall and
dropped into an armchair.
“I am—you say I am—decorated?”
“Yes, but it is a secret, a great secret.”
She had put the glorious garment into a cupboard,
and came to her husband pale and trembling.
“Yes,” she continued, “it is a new
overcoat that I have had made for you. But I
swore that I would not tell you anything about it,
as it will not be officially announced for a month
or six weeks, and you were not to have known till
your return from your business journey. M. Rosselin
managed it for you.”
“Rosselin!” he contrived to utter in his
joy. “He has obtained the decoration for
me? He—Oh!”
And he was obliged to drink a glass of water.
A little piece of white paper fell to the floor out
of the pocket of the overcoat. Caillard picked
it up; it was a visiting card, and he read out:
“Rosselin-Deputy.”
“You see how it is,” said his wife.
He almost cried with joy, and, a week later, it was
announced in the Journal Officiel that M. Caillard
had been awarded the Legion of Honor on account of
his exceptional services.
The Bondels were a happy family, and although they
frequently quarrelled about trifles, they soon became
friends again.
