‘Irish! Ah! that’s lucky too,’ said he. ‘Our colonel is an Irishman. His name is Mahon. You’re certain of getting your leave now. I’ll present you to him to-morrow. We are to halt two days here, and before that is over, I hope you’ll have made your last caracole in the riding-school of Nancy.’
‘But remember,’ cried I, ‘that although Irish by family, I have never been there. I know nothing of either the people or the language—and do not present me to the general as his countryman.’
‘I’ll call you by your name, as a soldier of the 9th Hussars, and leave you to make out your claim as countrymen, if you please, together.’
This course was now agreed upon, and after some further talking, my friend, refusing all my offers of a bed, coolly wrapped his cloak about him, and, with his head on the table, fell fast asleep, long before I had ceased thinking over his stories and his adventures in camp and battlefield.
CHAPTER VIII. ‘TRONCHON’
My duties in the riding-school were always over before mid-day, and as noon was the hour appointed by the young lieutenant to present me to his colonel, I was ready by that time, and anxiously awaiting his arrival. I had done my best to smarten up my uniform, and make all my accoutrements bright and glistening. My scabbard was polished like silver, the steel front of my shako shone like a mirror, and the tinsel lace of my jacket had undergone a process of scrubbing and cleaning that threatened its very existence. My smooth chin and beardless upper-lip, however, gave me a degree of distress that all other deficiencies failed to inflict. I can dare to say, that no mediaeval gentleman’s bald spot ever cost him one-half the misery as did my lack of moustache occasion me. ‘A hussar without beard, as well without spurs or sabretache’; a tambour major without his staff, a cavalry charger without a tail, couldn’t be more ridiculous; and there was that old serjeant of the riding-school, ‘Tron-chon,’ with a beard that might have made a mattress! How the goods of this world are unequally distributed! thought I; still why might he not spare me a little—a very little would suffice—just enough to give the ‘air hussar’ to my countenance. He’s an excellent creature, the kindest old fellow in the world. I ‘m certain he ‘d not refuse me. To be sure, the beard is a red one, and pretty much like bell-wire in consistence; no matter, better that than this girlish smooth chin I now wear.
Tronchon was spelling out the Moniteurs account of the Italian campaign as I entered his room, and found it excessively difficult to get back from the Alps and Apennines to the humble request I preferred.
‘Poor fellows!’ muttered he—‘four battles in seven days, without stores of any kind or rations—almost without bread; and here comest thou, whining because thou hasn’t a beard.’
‘If I were not a hussar——’