ere was that old sergeant of the riding-school,
"Tronchon," with a beard that might have made a mattress! How the goods
of this world are unequally distributed! thought I; still why might he
not spare me a little--a very little would suffice--just enough to give
the "air hussar" to my countenance. He's an excellent creature; the
kindest old fellow in the world. I'm certain he'd not refuse me; to be
sure the beard is a red one, and pretty much like bell-wire in
consistence; no matter, better that than this girlish smooth chin I now
wear.

Tronchon was spelling out the _Moniteur's_ account of the Italian
campaign as I entered his room, and found it excessively difficult to
get back from the Alps and Apennines to the humble request I preferred.

"Poor fellows," muttered he, "four battles in seven days, without stores
of any kind, or rations--almost without bread; and here comest thou,
whining because thou hasn't a beard."

"If I were not a hussar--"

"Bah!" said he, interrupting, "what of that? Where should'st thou have
had thy baptism of blood, boy? Art a child, nothing more."

"I shared my quarters last night with one, not older, Tronchon, and _he_
was an officer, and had seen many a battle-field."

"I know that, too," said the veteran, with an expression of impatience,
"that General Bonaparte will give every boy his epaulets, before an old
and tried soldier."

"It was not Bonaparte. It was--"

"I care not who promoted the lad; the system is just the same with them
all. It is no longer, 'Where have you served? what have you seen?' but,
'Can you read glibly? can you write faster than speak? have you learned
to take towns upon paper, and attack a breast-work with a rule and a
pair of compasses!' This is what they called 'la genie,' 'la genie!' ha!
ha! ha!" cried he, laughing heartily; "that's the name old women used to
give the devil when I was a boy."

It was with the greatest difficulty I could get him back from these
disagreeable reminiscences to the object of my visit, and, even then, I
could hardly persuade him that I was serious in asking the loan of a
beard. The prayer of my petition being once understood, he discussed the
project gravely enough; but to my surprise he was far more struck by the
absurd figure he should cut with his diminished mane, than I with my
mock mustache.

"There's not a child in Nancy won't laugh at me--they'll cry, 'There
goes old Tronchon--he's like Klaber's charger, which the Ge