I began to think so too, as I looked at myself in the small triangle of a looking-glass which decorated Tronchon’s wall, under a picture of Kellermann, his first captain. I fancied that the improvement was most decided. I thought that, bating a little over-ferocity, a something verging upon the cruel, I was about as perfect a type of the hussar as need be. My jacket seemed to fit tighter—my pelisse hung more jauntily—my shako sat more saucily on one side of my head—my sabre banged more proudly against my boot—my very spurs jangled with a pleasanter music—and all because a little hair bristled over my lip, and curled in two spiral flourishes across my cheek! I longed to see the effect of my changed appearance, as I walked down the ‘Place Carrière,’ or sauntered into the café where my comrades used to assemble. What will Mademoiselle Josephine say, thought I, as I ask for my petit verre, caressing my moustache thus! Not a doubt of it, what a fan is to a woman a beard is to a soldier!—a something to fill up the pauses in conversation, by blandly smoothing with the finger, or fiercely curling at the point.
‘And so thou art going to ask for thy grade, Maurice?’ broke in Tronchon, after a long silence.
‘Not at all. I am about to petition for employment upon active service. I don’t seek promotion till I have deserved it.’
‘Better still, lad. I was eight years myself in the ranks before they gave me the stripe on my arm. Parbleu! the Germans had given me some three or four with the sabre before that time.’
‘Do you think they ‘ll refuse me, Tronchon?’
‘Not if thou go the right way about it, lad. Thou mustn’t fancy it’s like asking leave from the captain to spend the evening in a guinguette, or to go to the play with thy sweetheart. No, no, boy. It must be done en règle. Thou’lt have to wait on the general at his quarters at four o’clock, when he “receives,” as they call it. Thou’lt be there, mayhap, an hour, ay, two or three belike, and after all, perhaps, won’t see him that day at all! I was a week trying to catch Kellermann, and, at last, he only spoke to me going downstairs with his staff—
‘"Eh, Tronchon, another bullet in thy old carcass; want a furlough to get strong again, eh?”
‘"No, colonel; all sound this time. I want to be a sergeant—I’m twelve years and four months corporal.”
‘"Slow work, too,” said he, laughing; “ain’t it, Charles?” and he pinched one of his young officers by the cheek. “Let old Tronchon have his grade; and I say, my good fellow,” said he to me, “don’t come plaguing me any more about promotion till I’m General of Division. You hear that?”
‘Well, he’s got his step since; but I never teased him after.’