Clavert; and after the fourth day she acknowledged that the world of
the hotel, her world, would not go as well without Marie Clavert as
it would with her. And in the next place Madame Bauche had a friend
whose advice in grave matters she would sometimes take. This friend
had told her that it would be much better to send away Adolphe, since
it was so necessary that there should be a sending away of some one;
that he would be much benefited by passing some months of his life
away from his native valley; and that an absence of a year or two
would teach him to forget Marie, even if it did not teach Marie to
forget him.

And we must say a word or two about this friend. At Vernet he was
usually called M. le Capitaine, though in fact he had never reached
that rank. He had been in the army, and having been wounded in the
leg while still a sous-lieutenant, had been pensioned, and had thus
been interdicted from treading any further the thorny path that leads
to glory. For the last fifteen years he had resided under the roof
of Madame Bauche, at first as a casual visitor, going and coming, but
now for many years as constant there as she was herself.

He was so constantly called Le Capitaine that his real name was
seldom heard. It may however as well be known to us that this was
Theodore Campan. He was a tall, well-looking man; always dressed in
black garments, of a coarse description certainly, but scrupulously
clean and well brushed; of perhaps fifty years of age, and
conspicuous for the rigid uprightness of his back--and for a black
wooden leg.

This wooden leg was perhaps the most remarkable trait in his
character. It was always jet black, being painted, or polished, or