Still touched by the kindness of his comrade, Jean-Victor was gazing at him with admiration, when the sergeant of the platoon opened the door and called the five men who were to relieve the sentinels of the out-posts.  The duke was of the number, but he did not waken when his name was called.

“Hardimont, stand up!” repeated the non-commissioned officer.

“If you are willing, sergeant,” said Jean-Victor rising, “I will take his duty, he is sleeping so soundly—­and he is my comrade.”

“As you please.”

The five men left, and the snoring recommenced.

But half an hour later the noise of near and rapid firing burst upon the night.  In an instant every man was on his feet, and each with his hand on the chamber of his gun, stepped cautiously out, looking earnestly along the road, lying white in the moonlight.

“What time is it?” asked the duke.  “I was to go on duty to-night.”

“Jean-Victor went in your place.”

At that moment a soldier was seen running toward them along the road.

“What is it?” they cried as he stopped, out of breath.

“The Prussians have attacked us, let us fall back to the redoubt.”

“And your comrades?”

“They are coming—­all but poor Jean-Victor.”

“Where is he?” cried the duke.

“Shot through the head with a bullet—­died without a word!—­ough!”

* * * * *

One night last winter, the Due de Hardimont left his club about two o’clock in the morning, with his neighbor, Count de Saulnes; the duke had lost some hundred louis, and had a slight headache.

“If you are willing, Andre,” he said to his companion, “we will go home on foot—­I need the air.”

“Just as you please, I am willing, although the walking may he bad.”

They dismissed their coupes, turned up the collars of their overcoats, and set off toward the Madeleine.  Suddenly an object rolled before the duke which he had struck with the toe of his boot; it was a large piece of bread spattered with mud.

Then to his amazement, Monsieur de Saulnes saw the Due de Hardimont pick up the piece of bread, wipe it carefully with his handkerchief embroidered with his armorial bearings, and place it on a bench, in full view under the gaslight.

“What did you do that for?” asked the count, laughing heartily, “are you crazy?”

“It is in memory of a poor fellow who died for me,” replied the duke in a voice which trembled slightly, “do not laugh, my friend, it offends me.”

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

BY HONORE DE BALZAC