For three months Denot and Plume had consorted together; they had been a strange fantastic pair of comrades, but yet not altogether ill-matched:  nothing could be more dissimilar than they had been in age, in birth, and previous habits, but they had met together with the same wishes, the same ambition, the same want of common sense, and above all the same overweening vanity; they had flattered each other from the moment of their first meeting to the present day, and thus these two poor zealous maniacs, for in point of sanity the Lieutenant was but little better than his Captain, had learnt to love each other.

And now Plume, having carefully completed what the exigencies of the moment required, gave way to his sincere grief, and bewailed his friend with no silent sorrow.  Henri, who had totally forgotten the little that he had heard of the martial baker, was at a loss to conceive who could be the man, a stranger to himself who found cause for so much sorrow in the death of Adolphe Denot.  As for himself, he had tenderly loved Denot as a brother; he had truly forgiven him his gross treachery; and he had determined to watch over him, and if possible protect him from farther sorrow:  but after the interview he had had with him, he could not conceal from himself that Adolphe was still insane; and he felt that death had come to him in an honourable way, atoning for past faults, and relieving him from future sufferings.  He could not grieve that his friend had fallen in battle, bravely doing his duty in the cause to which he was bound by so many ties.

“He was the bravest man, and the best soldier, and the most honourable gentleman in the whole army,” said Plume, sobbing; “and now there’s no one left but myself,” and then recovering himself he made to the manes of the departed warrior a loyal promise, which he fully determined to keep.  “Thou art gone, my brave commander, my gallant commander,” he said, standing suddenly upright, and stretching his long arms over the corpse, “thou art gone, and I doubt not I shall follow thee:  but till that moment shall come, till a death, as honourable as thine own, shall release me from my promise, I swear that I will not disgrace the high station which thy departure obliges me to fill.  It was thou who first tutored my unaccustomed arm to wield the sword; it was thou who badest me hear unmoved the thunder of an enemy’s artillery; it was thou who taughtest me all I know of military tactics, and the art of war.  Rest in peace, dear friend, dearest of instructors, I will not disgrace thy precepts.”  And so finishing, he stooped down, kissed the face of the dead body which he apostrophized, made a cross on the bosom, and muttered a fervent prayer for the welfare of the departed soul.

If Henri was surprised before, he was now perfectly astounded; nothing could be less poetical, less imposing, or have less of military grandeur about it than the figure of poor Auguste Plume.  What could he mean by saying that he was now called on to fill a high station?  Who could it be that confessed to owe so deep a debt of gratitude to the dead man?