No one came later than the colonel of the 23d of the line, M. Rollon. He made his way with no little difficulty through the crowds of people who filled the Rue de la Faisanderie. He was a man of forty-five, with a quick voice, and full figure. His hair was a little grizzled, but his brown mustache, full, and twisted at the ends, looked as young as ever. He said little, spoke to the point, knew a great deal, and did no boasting--all in all, he was a fine specimen of a colonel. He came right up to Fougas, and held out his hand like an old acquaintance. "My dear comrade," said he, "I have taken great interest in your resurrection, as much on my own account as on account of the regiment. The 23d which I have the honor to command, yesterday venerated you as an ancestor. From to-day, it will cherish you as a friend."--Not the slightest allusion to the affair of the morning, in which M. Rollon had undergone his pummelling with the rest. Fougas answered becomingly, but with, a tinge of coldness: "My dear comrade, I thank you for your kindly sentiments. It is singular that Destiny places me in the presence of my successor on the very day that I reopen my eyes to the light; for, after all, I am neither dead nor a general; I have not been transferred, nor have I been retired; yet I see another officer, more worthy, doubtless, at the head of my noble 23d. But if you have for your motto 'Honor and Courage,' as I am well satisfied you have, I have no right to complain, and the regiment is in good hands." Dinner was ready. Mme. Renault took Fougas' arm. She had him sit at her right, and M. Nibor at her left. The Colonel and the Mayor took their places at the sides of M. Renault; the rest of the company distributed themselves as it happened, regardless of etiquette. Fougas gulped down the soup and _entrees_, helping himself to every dish, and drinking in proportion. An appetite of the other world! "Estimable Amphitryon," said he to M. Renault, "don't get frightened at seeing me fall upon the rations. I always ate just so; except during the retreat in Russia. Consider, too, that I went to sleep last night, at Liebenfeld, without any supper." He begged M. Nibor to explain to him by what course of circumstances he had come from Liebenfeld to Fontainebleau. "Do you remember," said the doctor, "an old German who acted as interpreter for you before the court-martial?" "Perfectly. An excellent man, with a violet-colored wig. I'll remember him all my life, for there are not two wigs of that color in existence." "Very well; it was the man with the violet wig, otherwise known as the celebrated Doctor Meiser, who saved your life." "Where is he? I want to see him, to fall into his arms, to tell him----" "He was sixty-eight years old when he did you that little service; he would then be, to-day, in his hundred and fifteenth year, if he had waited for your acknowledgments." "And so, then, he is no more! Death has robbed him of my gratitude!"