by-and-by, but she looks like a very false phantom
indeed.

Next came the conscription, that grand turning-
point in a Frenchman's life. Jean, having
drawn Number One—the inexorable sentence to
military service—judged it expedient to join the
ranks of the Chasseurs des Alpes at once, without
waiting for further formalities.
Chronologically, this ought to bring us to the year
1821. His squadron was commanded by a
captain whose temper had been soured by
disappointment and retarded promotion, and to
whom he was presented, with other conscripts,
on the day of his arrival. The new comers were
drawn up in a row, and the terrible captain
commenced his inspection by the recruit to the
right, Jean Gigon being the third in the rank.

"How did you enter the service?" he abruptly
inquired of conscript the first.

"Monsieur——," replied the novice, trembling
at his officer's bristling moustaches.

"Call me Captain."

"Captain, I entered as a volunteer."

"Ah! Good! An idle fellow! A disgrace to
his family! A good-for-nothing scamp! Let's
try another. And you?" he said, addressing the
next.

"Substitute, captain."

"Better and better," rejoined the irascible
officer. "You took your father's pig to market.
A capital trade! And you, young man?" he
said, addressing Jean Gigon.

"I drew Number One, captain; and I did
not wait to be called out."

"Admirable! A soldier because you could
not help it! A very pretty little addition to my
squadron!"

"But, captain, did you enter the service by
the operation of the Holy Spirit, since you do
not care to have either volunteers, nor substitutes,
nor compulsory conscripts?"

The captain, stupified at an answer, which he
now heard for the first time in his life, stared
Jean Gigon full in the face, and strutted away
without deigning to continue the inspection, but
also without any thought of punishing Jean
Gigon's audacity.

Thus began his military career, in which, in
France, a duel is always a probable incident.
His first was the result of an unintentional pun
or double-meaning. In every regiment in France,
and probably in the world—exactly as amongst
the population of London—there is sure to be
current some word or phrase that is dragged in
and applied to every occasion. When Jean Gigon
entered the 17th Cavalry Chasseurs, the
monomania of the regiment was to pronounce, at
every possible moment, the interjection "Hélas!"
or Alas, the h not being aspirated.

One winter's evening, Jean Gigon took part
in a game of quadrette, which is a sort of four-
handed écarté, only the king does not reckon for
a point. He takes the other cards, and that is
all. After him come the queen, the knave, the
ace, the ten, the nine, the eight, and the seven.
Gigon's partner was an old soldier who pretended
not to have his equal at cards in the regiment.

"Don't show your hand," said the old
moustache. "How many trumps have you, Jean
Gigon?"

"The king, hélas!"

"Very well; play, the king of trumps. The
trick is ours," said the veteran, exultingly.
"And now, my lad, play your ace."

"I haven't got an ace."

"Not got the ace of trumps?"

"No, old fellow, certainly not."

"Pray are you making game of me, young
man? When I had the honour of asking you
how many trumps you had, why did you answer,
'The king, et l'as?'" (and the ace)—pronounced
exactly like "hélas!"

"I did not say, 'I have the king together
with the ace;' I said, 'I have the king, hélas!'
The men say 'alas!' on every occasion.
Nothing else is to be heard in the regiment ever
since I have been in it."

"Ah! Yes; ever since you have been in it,
jeune blaireau" (young badger). "Hélas!"

"I can tell you, vieux renard" (old fox), "you
are not going to pluck my geese. You also, you
see, can pronounce the word 'hélas!' very stupidly."

"Ah! I talk stupidly, young man, do I?
Take that."

The angry professor of quadrette threw the
cards he held in Jean Gigon's face, who replied
by throwing the whole pack in a lump at his
partner's head. The partner, forgetting the
forbearance due to a novice, struck him, before
their comrades could interpose. The
consequence was inevitable. The interjection
'hélas!' was the cause of Jean Gigon's first duel.

On the ground, he surprised his adversary by
a new mode of fence. Instead of the usual
parry and thrust, he flourished his sabre round
and round like a mill, till he drove his antagonist
with his back to a wall, after making him drop
his weapon. Then preparing to return with his
fist the blow received, he first inquired, "Am I
a badger? Am I a badger?"

"No," answered the patient, faintly.

"Really and truly?" insisted Jean Gigon.

"Word of honour: but let me go."

"Hélas!" said the provost, who witnessed the
duel. "If the young ones are going to lead the
old ones such a dance as this, it is all up with
the regiment. Meanwhile, let us go and eat
our soup before it gets cold. Hélas!"

We are next treated to a recognition, at
Portugalette, of the long-lost Marie, under the
guise of a Spanish dancer, "the lovely, the
celebrated Emparoz." Jean Gigon, exclaiming "'Tis
Gigonnette!" fainted when she appeared on the
stage. Gigonnette, threatening to become a
nickname, was the cause of the second duel, in
which he simply shaved off his adversary's left
ear, without doing him further harm. Of Marie
Emparoz we will say no more than that, first,
she and her handsome husband, "Pedro mio,"
are far from novelties in literature; and secondly,
that the idea never seems to have occurred to
her (an only child) of going home to claim her
inheritance of the estate of Old Oaks, or to see