Mademoiselle de Vermont had not been seen again in the Bois de Boulogne since the night of her dinner, although Henri had sought in vain to meet her in the mornings in the bridle-path, and afternoons in the Avenue des Acacias.

He decided that probably she did not wish to ride during Holy Week; but when several days had passed after Easter, and still she was not seen amusing herself in her usual fashion, he said to himself that perhaps it would be the proper thing to make what is called “a dinner-call.”

There are some women whose fascination is so overwhelming as to cause the sanest of lovers to commit themselves, whence comes the slightly vulgar expression, “He has lost his bearings.”  Henri began to feel that he was in this state when he presented himself at Zibeline’s home.  A domestic informed him that Mademoiselle had been absent a week, but was expected home that evening.  He left his card, regretting that he had not waited twenty-four hours more.

It was now the middle of April, the time when the military governor of Paris is accustomed to pass in review the troops stationed on the territory under his command, and this review was to take place the next morning.

The order for the mobilizing of his own division having been received and transmitted, Henri’s evening was his own, and he resolved to pass it with Lenaieff, feeling certain that his colleague at least would speak to him of Zibeline.

The aide-de-camp general lived at the Hotel Continental, much frequented by Russians of distinction.  Henri found his friend just dressing for dinner, and well disposed to accept his proposition.

As they descended the stairs, they passed an imposing elderly man, with white moustache and imperial, still very erect in his long redingote with military buttons—­a perfect type of the German officer who gets himself up to look like the late Emperor William I. This officer and the French general stopped on the stairs, each eyeing the other without deciding whether he ought to salute or not, as often happens with people who think they recognize some one, but without being able to recall where or in what circumstances they have met before.

It was Henri whose memory was first revived.

“Captain, you are my prisoner!” he said, gayly, seizing the stranger by the collar.

“What!  The Commandant de Prerolles!” cried the elderly man, in a reproachful tone, from which fifteen years had not removed the bitterness.

“I know who he is!” said Lenaieff.  “Monsieur is your former jailer of the frontier fortress!”

The officer of the landwehr attempted to withdraw from the hand that held him.

“Oh, I don’t intend to let you escape!  You are coming to dine with us, and we will sign a treaty of peace over the dessert,” said Henri, clasping the officer’s hand affectionately.

His tone was so cordial that the stranger allowed himself to be persuaded.  A quarter of an hour later all three were seated at a table in the Cafe Anglais.