Every evening Chatillon rode upon his white horse round the Queen’s Meadow, a place frequented by the people of fashion.  The Dracophils posted along the Emiral’s route a crowd of needy Penguins who kept shouting:  “It is Chatillon we want.”  The middle classes of Alca conceived a profound admiration for the Emiral.  Shopwomen murmured:  “He is good-looking.”  Women of fashion slackened the speed of their motor-cars and kissed hands to him as they passed, amidst the hurrahs of an enthusiastic populace.

One day, as he went into a tobacco shop, two Penguins who were putting letters in the box recognized Chatillon and cried at the top of their voices:  “Hurrah for the Emiral!  Down with the Republicans.”  All those who were passing stopped in front of the shop.  Chatillon lighted his cigar before the eyes of a dense crowd of frenzied citizens who waved their hats and cheered.  The crowd kept increasing, and the whole town, singing and marching behind its hero, went back with him to the Admiralty.

The Emiral had an old comrade in arms, Under-Emiral Vulcanmould, who had served with great distinction, a man as true as gold and as loyal as his sword.  Vulcanmould plumed himself on his thoroughgoing independence and he went among the partisans of Crucho and the Minister of the Republic telling both parties what he thought of them.  M. Bigourd maliciously declared that he told each party what the other party thought of it.  In truth he had on several occasions been guilty of regrettable indiscretions, which were overlooked as being the freedoms of a soldier who knew nothing of intrigue.  Every morning he went to see Chatillon, whom he treated with the cordial roughness of a brother in arms.

“Well, old buffer, so you are popular,” said he to him.  “Your phiz is sold on the heads of pipes and on liqueur bottles and every drunkard in Alca spits out your name as he rolls in the gutter. . . .  Chatillon, the hero of the Penguins!  Chatillon, defender of the Penguin glory! . . .  Who would have said it?  Who would have thought it?”

And he laughed with his harsh laugh.  Then changing his tone:  “But, joking aside, are you not a bit surprised at what is happening to you?”

“No, indeed,” answered Chatillon.

And out went the honest Vulcanmould, banging the door behind him.

In the mean time Chatillon had taken a little flat at number 18 Johannes-Talpa Street, so that he might receive Viscountess Olive.  They met there every day.  He was desperately in love with her.  During his martial and neptunian life he had loved crowds of women, red, black, yellow, and white, and some of them had been very beautiful.  But before he met the Viscountess he did not know what a woman really was.  When the Viscountess Olive called him her darling, her dear darling, he felt in heaven and it seemed to him that the stars shone in her hair.

She would come a little late, and, as she put her bag on the table, she would ask pensively: