Legion of Honor, March 13th, 18--.

Hector Servadac was thirty years of age, an orphan without lineage and
almost without means. Thirsting for glory rather than for gold, slightly
scatter-brained, but warm-hearted, generous, and brave, he was eminently
formed to be the protege of the god of battles.

For the first year and a half of his existence he had been the
foster-child of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of Medoc--a lineal
descendant of the heroes of ancient prowess; in a word, he was one of
those individuals whom nature seems to have predestined for remarkable
things, and around whose cradle have hovered the fairy godmothers of
adventure and good luck.

In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of an officer; he was
rather more than five feet six inches high, slim and graceful, with dark
curling hair and mustaches, well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue
eye. He seemed born to please without being conscious of the power he
possessed. It must be owned, and no one was more ready to confess it
than himself, that his literary attainments were by no means of a high
order. "We don't spin tops" is a favorite saying amongst artillery
officers, indicating that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous
pursuits; but it must be confessed that Servadac, being naturally idle,
was very much given to "spinning tops." His good abilities, however,
and his ready intelligence had carried him successfully through the
curriculum of his early career. He was a good draughtsman, an excellent
rider--having thoroughly mastered the successor to the famous "Uncle
Tom" at the riding-school of St. Cyr--and in the records of his military
service his name had several times been included in the order of the
day.

The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree, to illustrate
his character. Once, in action, he was leading a detachment of infantry
through an intrenchment. They came to a place where the side-work of the
trench had been so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually
fallen in, leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the grape-shot
that was pouring in thick and fast. The men hesitated. In an instant
Servadac mounted the side-work, laid himself down in the gap, and thus
filling up the breach by his own body, shouted, "March on!"

And through a storm of shot, not one of which touched the prostrate
officer, the troop passed in safety.

Since leaving the military college, Servadac, with the exception