What is a regiment?  (Thus, the author
in question.) Everybody looks upon it from
his own point of view. The dictionary calls
it "a body of military men." The country
regards it as a faithful dog that hinders the
neighbours from committing petty annoyances;
orderly people pretend that it is tranquillity;
agitators will have that it is the sword of
Damocles struck off in three thousand copies.
Contractors consider it as an income of twelve
hundred pounds per year; mathematicians, as
an integral number reducible to vulgar fractions.
For Béranger, it was the Sons of France; for
the nursemaids of the Tuilleries, it is the
Conservatoire of Sentiment. Mothers are sad when
they see it pass; fathers are good-natured
enough to fancy that it is gratuitous board and
lodging which the government offers for the
reception of their sons. To the school of cowards,
it is an enigma; to the women, it is three thousand
men. In all this, it is possible that only
the women and the dictionary are right.

The Hundred and First is a fine regiment.
Separately, the men are not handsome; by no
means. But put them together in a corps,
and they are magnificent—and are they brave?
Inquire of the whole army. 'Tis not along the
Boulevards that you should see the Hundred
and First pass; there, you will think it stuck-
up and given to attitudinising—two sad defects
in a regiment. Here, on the high road, is,
the place to see it, with its cap on one side and
its eye alert. It enjoys existence, laughing and
singing, with its three thousand voices, one of
its favourite songs. While it sings on its way,
let us have a good look at it. Take a chair.
First come the sappers.

To know one sapper from another, is a proof
of remarkable perspicacity. Sappers resemble
negroes in this respect, that, if you know one,
you know all. This soldier—not to call him
always by his name—with his hairy cap, his
face to match, and his hatchet, reminds you of
Robinson Crusoe. He wears a white apron,
the emblem of his functions in the capacity of
nursemaid; you will see him soon taking out
the colonel's little girl for a walk. That black
and bearded head beams ineffable smiles on the
little pink and white creature who, far from
being afraid of him, calls him "My ducky darling
sapper."  If you listened to the stories which
the soldier invents to amuse the child, you
would be highly delighted.  They overflow with
unheard-of-ness. Unfortunately, the dénoûment
never varies. It is, to wit, the history of a little
girl who, after being very well-behaved, very
kind, very charitable, and very virtuous, marries
at last—a general of division. Poor little
thing!

Good gracious! What a handsome soldier!

Parbleu! I believe so; 'tis the drum-major.
I would wager my head, sir, that you have heard
that the drum-major of the Hundred and First
is somewhat stupid? It is really the case; but
the whole truth is, that he won't take the trouble
to sharpen his wits. What could he do with
them if they were sharp? "That sort of thing
is beneath his position." Accustomed to behold
humanity beneath him, he believes himself above
humanity. Envied by some, disdained by others,
he remains alone—with his shoulder-belt.  Even
love cannot regenerate him, for he is loved
solely for his feather and his cane. Of all the
varieties of womankind, he knows only the most
insipid—the women who admire fine men.  Don't
wish to step into his shoes, and stop your ears,
for here are the trumpeters.

Handsome pay (three sous per day) and the
certainty of making a noise in the world, render
the drummer insufferably proud. In obedience
to tradition, he slightly cocks his head on one
side, to give himself a gracious air. When he
returns to his cottage, his daddy, and his pigs,
he will cleverly insinuate that he renounced
military honours to follow his vocation for
agriculture.

The colonel is always serious and wearied out,
which is perfectly comprehensible. To manage
three thousand men is no trifle, and to hear the
regimental band play every day the same
variations on Guillaume Tell is anything but amusing.
On his Arab horse, with his back turned to the
regiment, the colonel sees and knows everything;
what he does not know, he guesses. On returning
to quarters, he will consign to barracks for
a couple of days, number seven of the second
rank, of the third company, of the second battalion,
for slinging his cartridge-box awkwardly;
but his proverbial severity will cease, the moment
he passes general of brigade.

The lieutenant-colonel speaks like the colonel,
walks like the colonel, scolds like the colonel,
laughs like the colonel, does everything like the
colonel. But he is an older man. How does
this happen?  Nobody knows; it lieth between
Destiny and the Minister.

The commandant of the third battalion,
scarcely thirty years of age, won his epaulettes
and the officers' cross of the Legion of Honour
in the Crimea, where he reaped glory by waggon-
loads. He bears one of the most honourable
names in France; he has an income of sixty
thousand francs a year; and he has a young wife
as fair as his fortune. Esteemed by his chiefs,
beloved by the soldiers, a magnificent career is
open to him. Here is more than enough to
make him the happiest man in the world.
Well; he is nothing of the kind. This poor
commandant bears a serpent in his bosom—a
chronic grief, an incurable pain. The serpent,
the grief, the pain, lie in the fact that he is an
inch shorter than M. Thiers, the shortest of all
known great men.

Amongst the officers of the Hundred and
First is found the married officer who
associates with nobody, not even with his married
colleagues, because it "gives rise to gossip;" and,
in the corps, half a word soon takes gigantic
proportions.  It is an unlucky day when Captain
Michel calls on Captain Baudoin, and asks,
"Captain, is it true that you said that I said
my wife lold me that Captain Laudry's wife
had told her that her husband wore stays?"
The officer of fortune has no fortune at all.