The Legion of Honor Page #2

"The Legion of Honor" is a short story by Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of ambition, social status, and the often superficial nature of honor. The narrative follows the character of Monsieur de Vallin, who is obsessed with the prestigious order of the Legion of Honor. He believes that receiving this accolade will elevate his status in society and fulfill his lifelong aspirations. As the story unfolds, it reveals the complexities of desire and the irony of attempting to achieve personal validation through external recognition, ultimately questioning the true value of such honors in the pursuit of genuine worth and identity. Maupassant's keen observations and poignant storytelling offer a sharp critique of social norms and the human condition.

								


He told Caillard what new studies he ought to undertake; he introduced him to learned societies which took up particularly obscure points of science, in the hope of gaining credit and honors thereby; and he even took him under his wing at the ministry.

One day, when he came to lunch with his friend—for several months past he had constantly taken his meals there—he said to him in a whisper as he shook hands: “I have just obtained a great favor for you. The Committee of Historical Works is going to intrust you with a commission. There are some researches to be made in various libraries in France.”

Caillard was so delighted that he could scarcely eat or drink, and a week later he set out. He went from town to town, studying catalogues, rummaging in lofts full of dusty volumes, and was hated by all the librarians.

One day, happening to be at Rouen, he thought he should like to go and visit his wife, whom he had not seen for more than a week, so he took the nine o'clock train, which would land him at home by twelve at night.

He had his latchkey, so he went in without making any noise, delighted at the idea of the surprise he was going to give her. She had locked herself in. How tiresome! However, he cried out through the door:

“Jeanne, it is I!”

She must have been very frightened, for he heard her jump out of her bed and speak to herself, as if she were in a dream. Then she went to her dressing room, opened and closed the door, and went quickly up and down her room barefoot two or three times, shaking the furniture till the vases and glasses sounded. Then at last she asked:

“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.
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