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