call to-bed, and not a man will go into the
dormitories. My exhortations and threats have
had no effect whatever. I ordered the guard to
arrest those whom I suspected to be the
ringleaders, but they refused to obey me. Come
with me, colonel, I entreat you; your presence
may prevent some serious misfortune."

"Joseph," said the colonel, calling his
servant, who was at hand in an instant. "Quick,
my uniform, my sabre."

"Ah! colonel," interposed the adjutant-major,
"I conjure you, do not waste a moment;
time is too precious. If we are not there in
five minutes, the lancers will set fire to the
barracks."

"Let us be off, then," said the colonel. The
adjutant-major strode on before, to hide a
broad grin, which his thick moustaches were
unable to conceal. Ten paces from the door of
the hotel, the lieutenant-colonel, followed by
two or three officers, was coming to meet his
superior, who, hastening onwards, said, "This
is a pretty piece of business, sir. The regiment
is in open revolt, and you are not in quarters!"

"Colonel, I assure you——"

"That will do, sir; follow me!"

The distance from the Boule d'Or to the
double cavalry barracks is not great; nevertheless,
before it was traversed, the colonel found
himself surrounded by all the officers of the regiment,
so that the staff was complete. As he
was doubting whether the officers had not been
violently expelled, his eyes were struck by a
great glare of light.

"Have the wretches set fire to the barracks?"
he exclaimed, hurrying onwards.

"Alas! yes. No doubt they have. We are
too late to stop them. Let us see what they
are doing."

What Colonel Nip-and-no-joke saw and heard
was this. The barracks, four stories high besides
the ground floor, the façades of two vast stables
encompassing the barrack-yard, and a long range
of iron palisading, were completely illuminated
from top to bottom. Along the third story of
the principal building there runs a cornice about
half a yard broad; this cornice was occupied
the whole of its length with intrepid lancers
holding blazing torches. For an illumination
hastily got up, it was splendid. In the barrack-yard,
instead of mutinous soldiers, the eight
hundred men of the regiment, in admirable order,
shouted at the top of their lungs, "Long live
Colonel Bougenel!"

On Brigadier Godard's list of friends was an
old officer, Lieutenant Poitevin, who marred his
own fortunes by an evil habit which gained him
the nickname of Lieutenant Correctif, because he
could never make an observation or express an
opinion without correcting, or qualifying, or
contradicting it in the very same sentence. But
for this inveterate perversion of speech, which
drove him to point the end of every thought
with the very opposite to its commencement,
instead of retiring after thirty-three years'
service, covered with scars, on a lieutenant's
half-pay, he might perhaps have been a general.
Poitevin was a conscientious soldier in garrison,
and a brave one in facing the enemy, but his
merits were rendered unavailing to obtain
promotion by the peculiar phraseology which stuck
to him until it was too late.

Thus, when he rose from a bivouac or stepped
into a barrack-room, he would say, "It is very
hot to-day; but in reality the air is cold." Or,
"It is very cold to-day; but in reality the air is
warm." His comrades at first paid but little
attention to this curious mode of expressing
himself, which, after all, was very harmless; but
when he became an officer, it afforded too good a
handle to the conferring of a sobriquet, to be
lost. One day, at a review of the cavalry regiment
in which Grand Godard was serving, he
addressed the following words to the men of his
platoon: "I am highly satisfied to-day with the
condition both of the men and the horses; everything
is perfect." And he put spurs to his
horse, as if about to report to the captain.

"What! no corrective?" whispered the
lancers. "The lieutenant is certainly out of
sorts to-day."

"Wait a minute," suggested a non-commissioned
officer.

Lieutenant Correctif galloped back, and,
suddenly bringing his steed to a stand-still,
continued: "I would only suggest to the
sub-officers and brigadiers that the belts are very
badly whitened."

Another time, he gave his opinion: "In
Paris, the bread is excellent; it is a pity that
the flour should almost always be mouldy."

As a matter of course, the officer's complaint
was catching; in every mouth you heard
whimsical phrases, such as, "Our regimental band is
capital; only not one of the principal
instrumentalists is worth two sous." If a lancer had
any fault to find with his horse, "It is a good
sort of beast," he would say, "just fit for the
knackers." If a brigadier had to punish a man
for not taking proper care of his arms, he would
remark, "Your pistol is particularly clean,
remarkably well kept, but there are more than
ten rust-spots on the barrel."

When he was on half-pay, Poitevin was on
the point of contracting marriage with a charming
widow, who, like himself, resided at
Batignolles. The unlucky lieutenant's habit made
it come to nothing. During the publication of
the banns, one evening, when he was playing
cards at a café, every one congratulated him.
"Faith!" he exclaimed, "I believe I have
drawn a prize. My bride is about my own age,
an orderly person, rich enough to maintain us
both, not inconveniently devout, and likely to
make an excellent mother. Decidedly, I cannot
help being happy."

"Provided there come no qualification,"
muttered one of his comrades in an under tone.

"Only," immediately added unfortunate
Correctif, "one thing annoyed me when I dined with
her lately."

"Bah! And what might that be?" inquired
his friends in chorus.

"Oh, a mere nothing; but still it vexed me."