Though Denot's sight and speech were almost gone, the sense of hearing
was still left to him, and he understood what Henri said. He again moved
his head in token of dissent; again pulled his friend towards him by the
hand, and again muttered out a word, the last that he ever attempted to
utter; that one word Henri heard as plainly as though it had been spoken
with the full breath of a strong man--it was his sister's name.
Adolphe Denot survived this last effort of his troubled spirit, but a
few moments; the sepulchral rattle in his throat soon told the sad tale
of his dissolution; and Plume hurrying up to the bed-head, assisted
Henri in composing the limbs of the dead man.
For three months Denot and Plume had consorted together; they had been
a strange fantastic pair of comrades, but yet not altogether
ill-matched: nothing could be more dissimilar than they had been in age,
in birth, and previous habits, but they had met together with the same
wishes, the same ambition, the same want of common sense, and above all
the same overweening vanity; they had flattered each other from the
moment of their first meeting to the present day, and thus these two
poor zealous maniacs, for in point of sanity the Lieutenant was but
little better than his Captain, had learnt to love each other.
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