“We call him General, or Captain, mostly,” said Plume.  “Those are the sort of names which come readiest to a soldier’s mouth.  In the same way, they don’t call me Plume, or M. Plume, or Captain Plume, but just simply Lieutenant; and, do you know, I like it better.”

The Lieutenant was a tall, lanky, bony man, from whose body the heat of the oven, at which he had always worked, seemed to have drawn every ounce of flesh.  He was about forty, or forty-five, years of age.  He was nearly bald, but a few light, long, straggling locks of hair stood out on each side of his head.  He still wore most of the dress in which he had been accustomed to work, for proper military accoutrements had not yet come within his reach.  He had, however, over his shoulder an old bawdrick, from which usually hung a huge sabre, with which he gallantly performed the duties of his present profession.  It cannot be said the Lieutenant had none of the qualities of a soldier, for he was courageous enough; but, beyond that, his aptitude for military duties was not pre-eminent.  He always marched, or rather shuffled along, with a stoop in his back, which made his shoulders as high as his head.  He had not the slightest idea of moving in time; but this was of little consequence, for none of his men could have moved with him if he had.  When on active duty, he rushed about with the point of his drawn sword on a level with his breast, as though he were searching for “blues” in every corner, with a fixed determination of instantly immolating any that he might find.  He had large saucer eyes, with which he glared about him, and which gave him a peculiar look of insane enthusiasm, very fitted for the Lieutenant, first in command, under a mad Captain.  Such was Auguste Plume, and such like were the men who so long held their own ground, not only against the military weakness of the Directory, but even against the military strength of Napoleon.

We will leave Chapeau and his new friend still standing in the passage, for Plume could not invite him in, as none of the rooms were his own except the little garret upstairs; and we will follow Henri as he went in search of the Mad Captain, merely premising that all Plume’s efforts to find out the name of his superior officer were unavailing.  Without any farther invitation, Henri hurried up the stairs, snatching as he went a glimmering rush-light out of the ci-devant baker’s hands; and when he got to the top he knocked boldly at the right-hand door.  No one answered him, however, and he repeated his knocks over and over again, and even kicked and hallooed at the door, but still without effect.  He then tried to open it, but it was fastened on the inside:  and then he kicked and hallooed again.  He distinctly heard the hard breathing within of some one, as though in a heavy sleep; and be the sleeper who he might, he was determined not to leave the stairs without waking him; and, therefore, diligently sat to work to kick again.