Short Fiction

I saw my lover⁠—alone, standing by the bed. I cried out:

“ ‘ “My son? Where is my son?”

“ ‘He made no reply. I stammered: “Dead⁠—dead⁠—he has killed himself?”

“ ‘He answered: “No, not that, I swear. But, in spite of my efforts, we have been unable to find him.”

“ ‘Then in a sudden burst of rage and exasperation⁠—for we are all subject to fits of unreasonable and unaccountable anger⁠—I said: “I forbid you to come back, to see me again, unless you find him; now go.”

“ ‘He went away and I have never seen either of them again; that is how I have lived for the last twenty years. Can you imagine such a life? Can you understand the appalling torture, the long constant gnawing at a mother’s heart, at a woman’s heart; this terrible, endless suspense without end⁠—endless! No⁠—it is going to end⁠—for I am dying. I shall die without having seen them⁠—either one⁠—or the other!

“ ‘He, my friend, has written to me every day for the last twenty years, and I have always refused to see him, even for a second, for I had a strange feeling that the very moment he came, my son would come too! My son!⁠—my son! Is he dead? Is he living? Where is he hiding? Over there, perhaps beyond the great ocean, in some country so far away that its very name is unknown to me! Does he ever think of me? Oh! if he only knew! How cruel children are! Has he understood the terrible suffering to which he has condemned me; the agony, the despair of which he was the cause while I was still in the prime of life, which will endure to the end; me, his mother, who loved him with all the passion of a mother’s love? Cruel, cruel, isn’t it? You will tell him what I have said. You will repeat my last words: “My child, my dear, dear child, don’t be so hard on suffering humanity; life is fierce and brutal enough! My dear child, think of what your poor mother’s existence has been since the day you left her. My dear child, forgive her, love her now that she is dead, for she has had to live through the most terrible penitential suffering.” ’

“She gasped for breath, trembling as if she were speaking to her son himself. Then she added: ‘You will also tell him that I have never seen⁠—the other one again.’

“She was silent, then continued in a broken voice: ‘Now, leave me, please. I want to die alone, since neither of them is with me.’ ”

Maître Le Brument added: “I left the house crying like a dumb animal, so much so that my coachman turned round to stare at me. And to think that, every day, dramas like this are happening all around us. I have not found the son⁠—that son. You may say what you like; I call him that criminal son.”

Decorated!

Some people are born with a predominant instinct, with some vocation or some desire aroused, from the very moment they begin to speak or to think.

Ever since he was a child Monsieur Sacrement had only had one idea in his head⁠—to be decorated. When he was still quite a small boy he used to wear a zinc Cross of the Legion of Honour just as other children wear a soldier’s cap, and he took his mother’s hand in the street with a proud look, 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, for he had plenty of money of his own.

They lived in Paris, like many rich middle-class people do, mixing with their own particular set, without going among other people, proud of knowing a Deputy, who might perhaps be a Minister some day, while two heads of government departments were among their friends.

But Monsieur Sacrement could not get rid of his one absorbing idea, and he was very unhappy because he had not the right to wear a little bit of coloured 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 said the numbers out loud. “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 passersby interfered with his seeing them.

He knew the places where most of them were to be found. They swarmed in the Palais Royal. Fewer were seen in the Avenue de l’Opéra 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 cafés 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 Honour,” and he felt inclined to take off his hat to them.

He had often remarked that the officers had a different bearing from mere knights. They carried their heads higher, and you felt that they enjoyed greater official consideration, and a more widely-extended importance.

Sometimes M. Sacrement would be seized with a furious hatred for everyone who was decorated; he felt like a Socialist towards them. Then, when he got home, excited at meeting so many Crosses⁠—just like a poor hungry wretch