Involuntarily, forgetful of rank, he stretched his hand out, on the impulse of soldier to soldier, of gentleman to gentleman.

Then, as the bitter remembrance of the difference in rank and station between them flashed on his memory, he was raising it proudly, deferentially, in the salute of a subordinate to his superior, when Chanrellon's grasp closed on it readily.

The victim of Coeur d'Acier was of as gallant a temper as ever blent the reckless condottiere with the thoroughbred noble.
The Chasseur colored slightly, as he remembered that he had forgotten alike his own position and their relative stations.
"I beg your pardon, M.le Viscomte," he said simply, as he gave the salute with ceremonious grace, and passed onward rapidly, as though he wished to forget and to have forgotten the momentary self-oblivion of which he had been guilty.
"Dieu!" muttered Chanrellon, as he looked after him, and struck his hand on the marble-topped table till the glasses shook.

"I would give a year's pay to know that fine fellow's history.

He is a gentleman--every inch of him." "And a good soldier, which is better," growled the General of Brigade, who had begun life in his time driving an ox-plow over the heavy tillage of Alsace.
"A private of Chateauroy's ?" asked the Tirailleur, lifting his eye-glass to watch the Chasseur as he went.
"Pardieu--yes--more's the pity," said Chanrellon, who spoke his thoughts as hastily as a hand-grenade scatters its powder.