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.