‘And why so, Tronchon?’ said L
‘I’ll tell thee, lad,’ whispered he, in a low, confidential tone, as if imparting a secret well worth the hearing. ‘They can find fellows every day fit for lieutenants and chefs d’escadron. Parbleu! they meet with them in every café, in every “billiard” you enter; but a sergeant! Maurice, one that drills his men on parade—can dress them like a wall—see that every kit is well packed, and every cartouch well filled—who knows every soul in his company as he knows the buckles of his own sword-belt—that’s what one should not chance upon in haste. It’s easy enough to manoeuvre the men, Maurice; but to make them, boy, to fashion the fellows so that they be like the pieces of a great machine, that’s the real labour—that’s soldiering indeed.’
‘And you say I must write a petition, Tronchon?’ said I, more anxious to bring him back to my own affairs than listen to these speculations of his. ‘How shall I do it?’
‘Sit down there, lad, and I’ll tell thee. I’ve done the thing some scores of times, and know the words as well as I once knew my “Pater.” Parbleu! I often wish I could remember that now, just to keep me from gloomy thoughts when I sit alone of an evening.’
It was not a little to his astonishment, but still more to his delight, that I told the poor fellow I could help to refresh his memory, knowing, as I did, every word of the litanies by heart; and, accordingly, it was agreed on that I should impart religious instruction in exchange for the secular knowledge he was conferring upon me.
‘As for the petition,’ said Tronchon, seating himself opposite to me at the table, ‘it is soon done; for mark me, lad, these things must always be short; if thou be long-winded, they put thee away, and tell some of the clerks to look after thee—and there’s an end of it. Be brief, therefore, and next—be legible—write in a good, large, round hand; just as, if thou wert speaking, thou wouldst talk with a fine, clear, distinct voice. Well, then, begin thus:—“Republic of France, one and indivisible!” Make a flourish round that, lad, as if it came freely from the pen. When a man writes—“France!” he should do it as he whirls his sabre round his head in a charge! Ay, just so.’
‘I ‘m ready, Tronchon, go on.’
‘“Mon Général!” Nay, nay—Général mustn’t be as large as France—yes, that’s better. “The undersigned, whose certificates of service and conduct are herewith inclosed.” Stay, stop a moment, Tronchon; don’t forget that I have got neither one nor t’other. No matter; I’ll make thee out both. Where was I?—Ay, “herewith inclosed; and whose wounds, as the accompanying report will show——“’
‘Wounds! I never received one.’
‘No matter, I’ll—eh—what? Feu d’enfer! how stupid I am! What have I been thinking of? Why, boy, it was a sick-furlough I was about to ask for—the only kind of petition I have ever had to write in a life long.’