He had his ideas printed in pamphlets, and sent a copy to each deputy, ten to each minister, fifty to the President of the Republic, ten to each Parisian, and five to each provincial newspaper.

Then he wrote on “Street Lending-Libraries.”  His idea was to have little pushcarts full of books drawn about the streets.  Everyone would have a right to ten volumes a month in his home on payment of one sou.

“The people,” M. Caillard said, “will only disturb itself for the sake of its pleasures, and since it will not go to instruction, instruction must come to it,” etc., etc.

His essays attracted no attention, but he sent in his application, and he got the usual formal official reply.  He thought himself sure of success, but nothing came of it.

Then he made up his mind to apply personally.  He begged for an interview with the Minister of Public Instruction, and he was received by a young subordinate, who was very grave and important, and kept touching the knobs of electric bells to summon ushers, and footmen, and officials inferior to himself.  He declared to M. Caillard that his matter was going on quite favorably, and advised him to continue his remarkable labors, and M. Caillard set at it again.

M. Rosselin, the deputy, seemed now to take a great interest in his success, and gave him a lot of excellent, practical advice.  He, himself, was decorated, although nobody knew exactly what he had done to deserve such a distinction.

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: