been shot through
the liver. Also his hand had been amputated, and for this reason he was
to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He had performed no special act of
bravery, but all _mutiles_ are given the _Croix de Guerre_, for they
will recover and go back to Paris, and in walking about the streets of
Paris, with one leg gone, or an arm gone, it is good for the _morale_ of
the country that they should have a _Croix de Guerre_ pinned on their
breasts. So one night at about eight o'clock, the General arrived to
confer the _Croix de Guerre_ on the man two beds from Marius. The
General was a beautiful man, something like the Russian Grand Duke. He
was tall and thin, with beautiful slim legs encased in shining tall
boots. As he entered the ward, emerging from the rain and darkness
without, he was very imposing. A few rain drops sparkled upon the golden
oak leaves of his cap, for although he had driven up in a limousine, he
was not able to come quite up to the ward, but had been obliged to
traverse some fifty yards of darkness, in the rain. He was encircled in
a sweeping black cloak, which he cast off upon an empty bed, and then,
surrounded by his glittering staff, he conferred the medal upon the man
two beds below Marius. The little ceremony was touching in its dignity
and simplicity. Marius, in his delirium, watched the proceedings
intently.

It was all over in five minutes. Then the General was gone, his staff
was gone, and the ward was left to its own reflections.

Opposite Marius, across the ward, lay a little _joyeux_. That is to say,
a soldier of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, which is the criminal regiment
of France, in which regiment are placed those men who would otherwise
serve sentences in jail. Prisoners are sent to this regiment in peace
time, and in time of war, they fight in the trenches as do the others,
but with small chance of being decorated. Social rehabilitation is their
sole reward, as a rule. So Marius waxed forth, taunting the little
_joyeux_, whose feet lay opposite his feet, a yard apart.

"_Tiens!_ My little friend!" he shouted so that all might hear. "Thou
canst never receive the _Croix de Guerre_, as Francois has received it,
because thou art of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_! And why art thou there,
my friend? Because, one night at a cafe, thou didst drink more wine than
was good for thee--so much more than was good for thee, that when an old
_boulevardier_, with much money in his pocket, proposed to take