Not so! A secret ambition devoured him. Homais hankered after the cross

of the Legion of Honour. He had plenty of claims to it.

"First, having at the time of the cholera distinguished myself by a

boundless devotion; second, by having published, at my expense,

various works of public utility, such as" (and he recalled his pamphlet

entitled, "Cider, its manufacture and effects," besides observation

on the lanigerous plant-louse, sent to the Academy; his volume of

statistics, and down to his pharmaceutical thesis); "without counting

that I am a member of several learned societies" (he was member of a

single one).

"In short!" he cried, making a pirouette, "if it were only for

distinguishing myself at fires!"

Then Homais inclined towards the Government. He secretly did the

prefect great service during the elections. He sold himself--in a word,

prostituted himself. He even addressed a petition to the sovereign

in which he implored him to "do him justice"; he called him "our good

king," and compared him to Henri IV.

And every morning the druggist rushed for the paper to see if his

nomination were in it. It was never there. At last, unable to bear it

any longer, he had a grass plot in his garden designed to represent the

Star of the Cross of Honour with two little strips of grass running from

the top to imitate the ribband. He walked round it with folded arms,

meditating on the folly of the Government and the ingratitude of men.

From respect, or from a sort of sensuality that made him carry on his

investigations slowly, Charles had not yet opened the secret drawer of

a rosewood desk which Emma had generally used. One day, however, he

sat down before it, turned the key, and pressed the spring. All Leon's

letters were there. There could be no doubt this time. He devoured them

to the very last, ransacked every corner, all the furniture, all the

drawers, behind the walls, sobbing, crying aloud, distraught, mad. He

found a box and broke it open with a kick. Rodolphe's portrait flew full

in his face in the midst of the overturned love-letters.

People wondered at his despondency. He never went out, saw no one,

refused even to visit his patients. Then they said "he shut himself up

to drink."

Sometimes, however, some curious person climbed on to the garden hedge,

and saw with amazement this long-bearded, shabbily clothed, wild man,

who wept aloud as he walked up and down.

In the evening in summer he took his little girl with him and led her to

the cemetery. They came back at nightfall, when the only light left in

the Place was that in Binet's window.




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