paths
and across their intersections. Soon everything was in darkness save
the ironical letters over the entrance gate, and, at a window on the
ground-floor, a flickering red glimmer, the flame of a taper burning by
the pillow of the dead child.

"_By decree of March 12, 1865, promulgated at the recommendation
of the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur le Docteur Jenkins,
founder and president of the Work of Bethlehem, is appointed
chevalier of the Imperial Order of the Legion of Honor. Exemplary
devotion to the cause of humanity._"

When he read these lines on the first page of the _Journal Officiel_,
on the morning of the 16th, the poor Nabob had an attack of vertigo.

Was it possible?

Jenkins decorated and not he!

He read the announcement twice, thinking that his eyes must have
deceived him. There was a buzzing in his ears. The letters, two of
each, danced before his eyes with the red circles caused by looking at
the sun. He had been so certain of seeing his name in that place; and
Jenkins--only the day before--had said to him so confidently: "It is
all settled!" that it still seemed to him that he must be mistaken. But
no, it was really Jenkins. It was a deep, heart-sickening, prophetic
blow, like a first warning from destiny, and was the more keenly felt
because, for years past, the man had been unaccustomed to
disappointments, had lived above humanity. All the good that there was
in him learned at that moment to be distrustful.

"Well," he said to de Gery, entering his room, as he did every morning,
and surprising him with the paper in his hand and evidently deeply
moved, "I suppose you have seen,--my name is not in the _Officiel_?"

He tried to smile, his features distorted like those of a child
struggling to restrain his tears. Then, suddenly, with the frankness
that was so attractive in him, he added: "This makes me feel very
badly,--I expected too much."

As he spoke, the door opened and Jenkins rushed into the room,
breathless, panting, intensely agitated.

"It's an outrage--a horrible outrage. It cannot, shall not be."

The words rushed tumultuously to his lips, all trying to come out at
once; then he seemed to abandon the attempt to express his thoughts and
threw upon the table a little shagreen box and a large envelope, both
bearing the stamp of the chancellor's office.

"There are my cross and my letters patent," he said. "They are yours,
my friend, I cannot keep them."