The serious officer employs his time in studying
theory, administration, and manoeuvres. One
type has all but disappered from the French
army; namely, the loud, braggart, coarse officer,
finding fault with everything in season and out of
season. Every day Atticism is gaining ground.
The Crimean war gave the last blow to boastfulness
and insolence. Why need a man boast,
when he has shown solid proofs of courage?
What is the use of putting on threatening looks
and staring right and left with an ever-knitted
brow, when all the world knows how redoubtable
you are if occasion require?

The sergeants constitute three categories: the
sergent who has only seven years' service, the
sargent who has fourteen, and the chargent who
has one-and-twenty.

The sergent is a badly-drawn portrait, with
a feeble outline of the features. He combines
simpletonisrn with presumptiousness. In
the novelty of his relative superiority, he feels
an immoderate craving to display his full authority;
he worries the soldiers. If the colonel
knew it! Never does he leave the chamber
without having punished his man. The French
soldier never murmurs; he sings, which is his
revenge. Hardly has the punisher turned his
heels, when the light breeze wafts to his ear the
finale of the Vexed Sergent:

                               And, rrrantaplan,
                               Do what you can;
                               Lieutenants two
                               Are higher than you;
                               So, while we can,
                               Sing r-r-r-rantaplan.

His looks are sombre, he boils with rage, but
he holds his tongue for fear of being taken for a
vexed sergent.

The sargent is quite a different person. A
perfect trooper, serving for the love of the art,
conscious of his value, nothing moves, nothing
surprises, that placid and martial countenance.
Provost at arms—pronounce provoo—he takes
a part in every duel. In the regiment, they
fight more readily than in the world. If one
soldier says to another, "You are an awkward
fellow!" it is sufficient. The proper steps are
taken. Arrived on the ground, the adversaries
salute each other. Then one of them, laying
his sword-guard on his heart, says, "Begin,
Monsieure."

"Certainly not," replies the other, with
courtesy.

"To oblige you," resumes the first, stretching
his legs, almost wide enough to split himself.

The blades are on the point of crossing. The
sargent advances, and gravely pronounces the
following speech, which never varies:

"An istant! Before you begin you ought to
know that, from the remotest times of antiquity
even as far back as the Romans, the diverse
disputes of honour have always been decided by
arms, notably by the foil, which is the noblest
without wishing here to humiliate the sabre in
any way.  But before your fury carries you
beyond the bounds of politeness, reflect that it is
more beautiful to repair a fault than to have not
committed it.  It is never too late to retrieve
one's errors, and to avoid the greatest remorse
in this worldly life. If you feel yourself to be
in fault, throw yourself into the arms of your
adversary, that he may grant you pardon. In
the other case, if your cause is good, fight till
your very last breath; for remember, both one
and the other of you, that he who retracts out of
fear and pusillanimity, or through other motives,
no matter what, is considered as a coward and
—and—as a plgnouf, not fit to be a French
soldier."

The combat commences; you know how it
finishes; a scratch on the right hand, the
accolade, and all is over.

The chargent is brave to the tip of every hair,
For the last twenty years a hundred thousand
men have saluted his lace stripes; and it costs
him a very slight effort to believe that those
salutes are addressed to himself: which belief
justifies the very good opinion he entertains of
his own person. He has seen everything, he
knows everything; beloved and respected by
the Hundred and First, he expects to be beloved
and respected everywhere. Louis XIV. was
not so strict about etiquette as he is about his
prerogatives.

A carabineer, passing near him, neglected to
raise his hand to his cap.

"Why don't you salute me?" askes the chargent,
walking straight up to him.

"I beg your pardon, sergeant, I did not
notice your stripes."

"Do you intend to insinuate that you are
short-sighted?"

"No, but——"

"There is no 'but' in the matter.  I could
take down your matricular number and have
you put into the corner; but I am not
susceptible of bringing anybody to grief. Only
please to listen to what I say. You belong to
the First Carabineers, which is the finest
regiment in France; well! by your insolent
incongruity you entirely deprive it of its prestige.
That is all I have to say to you."

The carabineer was flabergasted, as well he
might.

With this profound knowledge of life, he is
overwhelmed with questions: "Chargent, what
is that grease in the yellow pots which stand in
the windows of the dealers in eatables?"

Grease!  It is fat liver pâté; the most delectable
thing in the world.  It costs twenty-seven
francs the half-pound, without the truffles."

"Oh, ho!  And with the truffles?"

"It is worth its weight in gold."

"Have you ever tasted any yourself, chargent?"

"Approximatively."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means that I have never tasted it personally
myself; but I once had a comrade who
had a fellow-townsman who polished the floors
of a captain who often had it on his table."

"Chargent, is it true, what Corporal Siphlet
says, that at Bordeaux you kept company with
a black woman?"