“The General upstairs,” said he, “is snatching a short repose after the labours of the day.  Would not tomorrow morning—­early tomorrow morning—­”

“No,” said Henri, advancing, and thrusting himself in at the open door, “tomorrow morning will be too late; and I am sure your General is too good a soldier to care for having his rest broken; tell me which is his room, and I’ll step up to him.  You needn’t mind introducing me.”  And as he spoke he managed to pass by the baker, and ran up a few steps of the creaking, tottering stairs.

The poor baker was very much annoyed at this proceeding; for, in the first place, he had strict orders from his Commander to let no one up into his room; and, in the next place, his own wife and three children were in the opposite garret to that occupied by the Captain, and he was very unwilling that their poverty should be exposed.  He could not, however, turn a Commander-in-Chief out of the house, nor could he positively refuse to give him the information required; so he hallooed out, “The top chamber to the right, General; the top chamber to the right.  It’s a poor place,” he added, speaking to Chapeau; “but the truth is, he don’t choose to have more comforts about him than what are enjoyed by the poorest soldier in his army.”

“We won’t think any the worse of him for that,” said Chapeau.  “We’re badly enough off ourselves, sometimes—­besides, your Captain is a very old friend of M. Henri.”

“An old friend of whose?” said Plume.

“Of M. Henri Larochejaquelin—­that gentleman who has now gone upstairs:  they have known each other all their lives.”

Auguste Plume became the picture of astonishment.  “Known each other all their lives!” said he; “and what’s his name, then?”

“Why, I told you:  M. Henri Larochejaquelin.”

“No, but the other,” and he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder up the stairs.  “My Captain, you know; if he’s the friend of your Captain, I suppose you know what his name is?”

“And do you mean to say, you don’t know yourself, your own Captain’s name.”

Plume felt the impropriety, in a military point of view, of the fact.  He felt that, as second in command, he ought to have been made acquainted with his General’s name, and that it would have been difficult to find, in the history of all past wars, a parallel to his own ignorance.  He also reflected, that if Chapeau knew that the two Generals had been friends all their lives, he must probably know both their names, and that therefore the information so very necessary might now be obtained.

“Well then, M. Chapeau,” (he had learnt Chapeau’s name), “I cannot say that I do exactly know how he was generally called before he joined us in Brittany.  You know so many people have different names for different places.  What used you to call him now when you knew him?”

“But you have some name for him, haven’t you?” said the other, not answering the question.