ue that everything is becoming
ameliorated and humanized, what is there surprising in the supposition
that the army should become less rude, since it declares itself better
instructed? But no: routine rules, and no minister concerns himself to
enliven the life in the caserne.

"How simple it would be to put at the disposition of the men games of
skittles, of bowls, of _crocket_, to organize in bad weather amusing and
instructive entertainments with magic-lantern slides and dramatic
spectacles. Actors, musicians, singers, they are all to be had.... But
it is the business of the officers to organize everything, to conduct
everything. Now, our officers think their duties ended when, at five
o'clock, they leave the caserne."

[Illustration: THREE-YEAR MEN IN BARRACKS. A GOOD JOKE.

After a water-color by Georges Scott.]

Fortunately, correspondence is not forbidden, and the arrival of the
mail from home is always a great event. It is Saturday evening in the
chambree, and Pitou has arrived at the end of the week without a
reprimand. His heart feels the need of expansion, and he is laboriously
writing out a letter to his betrothed, down in the country. "The sweat
stands on his forehead.... It is, perhaps, his method of showing
tenderness, for he is greatly moved. I watch him out of the corner of my
eye, and can see that his heart has returned to the paternal dwelling in
the province, in the familiar chamber, where his _promise_, Francoise,
has come to spend the evening, and says to herself as she knits:

"'At this moment, what is he doing, my Pierre?'

"He is writing to thee, my poor Francoise; he has commenced a second
letter, on beautiful lace paper ornamented with an immense rose,
arranged like a transformation scene in a theatrical spectacle. When you
unfold the sheet, the flower blooms out. It is a small prodigy of
ingenuity, of open-work, and of coloration. This marvel resembles a
symbolic cabbage; you look to see issue from it an infant newly born.

"But Pitou ceases writing and looks toward me with anguish. What has
happened to him? Finally, confiding, he comes to a decision, and, in a
low voice:

"'I say, thou, _embaume_, how dost thou write that?'

"'_Embaume?_'

"'Yes, _embaume_.... "The rose, may it _embaume_ [perfume] this
letter...."' (With a sly smile): "'I am writing to my _payse_.... I am
not sure.... She was with the Sisters three years.'

"'Ah, well! embaume: E-m-b-a-u-m-e.'

"'B-a-u.'

"'M