“At number thirteen you 'll find your quarters, Monsieur le Cadet,” said a sergeant, as he presented me with the official order.
I remember at this very hour what a thrill his military salute sent through me. It was the first acknowledgment of my grade; the first recognition that I was no longer a mere schoolboy. I had not much time granted me to indulge such sensations, for already my schoolfellows had thronged round me, and overwhelmed me with questions and felicitations.
“Ah, what a fortunate fellow! No examination to go through; has his grade given him without toiling for it.”—“Is it the cavalry, Burke”—“Are you a cheval?”—“When do you join?”—“Where is your regiment?”—“Shall we see you again?”—“Won't you write to us all about the corps when you join them?”—“Who is your comrade?”—“Yes, tell us that; who is he?”
“Ma foi,” said I, “I know not more than yourselves. You are all aware to what an accident I owe my promotion. Where I am destined for, or in what corps, I can't tell. And as to my comrade—”
“Ah! take care he 's no tyrant,” said one.
“Yes, yes,” cried another; “show him you know what a small sword is at once.”
“Burke won't be trifled with,” cried a third.
And then followed a very chorus of voices, each detailing some atrocity committed by the cadets on their newly-joined associates. One had a friend wounded in the side the very day he joined; another knew some one who was thrown out of a window: here was an account of a delicate boy who passed an entire night in the snow, and died of a chest disease three weeks after; there, a victim to intemperance met his fate in the orgy that celebrated his promotion. This picture, I confess, did somewhat damp the ardor of my first impressions; and I took leave of my old friends with not less feeling of affection, that I doubted how much kindness and good feeling I had to expect from my new ones.
In this mood of mind I shook their hands for the last time, and followed the soldier who carried my baggage to the distant quarter of the école. As I entered the large court by the richly ornamented gate, whose bronzed tracery and handsome carving dated from the time of Louis the Fourteenth, my heart swelled with conscious pride. The façade of the square, unlike the simple front of the scholars' quarters, was beautifully architectural; massive consoles supported the windows, and large armorial insignia, cut on stone, surmounted the different entrances. But what most captivated my spirits and engaged my attention was a large flag in the centre, from which waved the broad ensign of France, beside which a sentinel paced to and fro. He presented arms as I passed; and the click of his musket, as he stood erect, sent a thrill through me, and made my very fingers tingle with delight.
“This is number thirteen, sir,” said the soldier, as we arrived in front of one of the doorways; and before I could reply, the door opened, and a young officer, in the uniform of an infantry regiment, appeared. He was about to pass out, when his eye resting on the luggage the soldier had just placed beside him, he stopped suddenly, and, touching his cap, asked in a polite tone,—