Part 2

“Hold,” said the general; “here is a louis! If your hand had not trembled in shaving your general, you would not be a true trooper.”

During a campaign, a barber becomes a soldier like the others, for then both hair and beard are neglected.

“When one finds water in Africa one drinks it; one does not amuse one’s self in making soap-suds.”

It sometimes happens that the barber of a regiment is a genuine barber, who knows his trade, and who practiced it with honor before he became a soldier. Then there is joy in the squadron; and the troopers flock to be shaved by this artist, who does not mutilate them, and whose well-sharpened razor is scarcely felt. The more foppish, in consideration of a small fee, have their hair dressed and oiled.

The lower officers, not only of the squadron, but of the entire regiment, give him their patronage; he becomes their favorite, their factotum, they treat him affably, almost courteously, and even permit a certain degree of familiarity.

Louis XI. made a prime minister of his barber.

THE VAGUEMESTRE.

He is always busy, very busy, exceedingly busy; that is his specialty. Do not attempt to speak to him, he can not answer you; do not try to stop him, he will march you straight to the guard-house. He does not walk, he runs; he has not an hour to spare, not a moment, not a second.

This morning before the odious reveille had driven the soldiers from their narrow couches he was up and dressed, ready to start.

Should you succeed in questioning him, this will be his response:

“What a life! what a profession! Look, sir, it is not yet nine o’clock, and I have already made thirty trips. I had scarcely time to take my dram this morning, and in my haste I almost choked myself. How do I know I shall have time to swallow my absinthe? Shall I even get my breakfast? That is doubtful. As you see, I invariably reach the cantine an hour after the others. Everything is eaten, there is nothing left, or if there is, it is something no one would eat, and consequently intolerable. Then they bring me an egg. An egg!” (with a bitter laugh), “an egg! for a man who has been running about all the morning. Never adopt my profession, sir; my existence is insupportable--a dog’s life! To-morrow, you may rest assured, I shall tender my resignation and take my place in the ranks, like the others. But what am I doing? Here I have lost ten minutes in talking; clear oat, d--n you! I should have had time to drink my absinthe.”

It must be admitted that the life of the vaguemestre is not a path of roses.

He is the Mercury of that company of deities known as the staff of a regiment, and like that mythological courier, he must have wings on his feet. He is also the superintendent of the regimental post-office; all letters that come and go pass through his hands; he must know the hours for the arrival and departure of the mails, carry the letters, and go after them. If soldiers receive money through the post, they can not draw it themselves; they carry their order to him, and he draws it and pays it over to them; so I assure you this officer’s time is fully occupied. And yet something more than agility is needed, for he must think of everything. The slightest oversight or the least delay might produce serious consequences, for forgetfulness and want of punctuality are severely punished.

In the morning he hastens to the post-office, then to the colonel’s house to obtain the order of the day; then he rushes back to the barracks in company with the messenger.

He then hastily sorts the letters, making a separate pile for each squadron; these he gives to the sergeants, who give them to the corporals on duty for the week, who distribute them among the soldiers.

But the hour for the report arrives; he hastens after it; then he starts off again. The report must be submitted to the superior officers. The lieutenant-colonel is waiting for it; the major is waiting for it, so the vaguemestre hurries away. On returning, he must stop to see a captain who has sent for him; besides, the colonel has intrusted him with a letter to be delivered to a lieutenant who lives at the very end of the town. What a nuisance! He rushes to the place, but does not find the lieutenant. The letter is important; the lieutenant must be at the _café_--lieutenants are always at the _café_--at least, when they are not at breakfast. The vaguemestre visits the _café_, no lieutenant; at last, he finds him at his boarding-house and delivers the letter.

He heaves a mighty sigh of relief. Now he can breakfast; he hurries on with all the fleetness of which his tired limbs are capable; hunger lends him wings. He reaches the barracks. Alas! the adjutant-major who has just left the table, stops him in the passage; he has a few suggestions to make--adjutant-majors always have suggestions to make.

At last he breakfasts in turn; he is the last of all. But it is useless to describe the experience of the entire day.

The vaguemestre is gifted with an extraordinary memory. Every week, when he distributes the money received by the soldiers, he knows the exact condition of each man’s account; he must know if those who are entitled to money are in disgrace or ill. Every week the sergeant on duty in each squadron must furnish him with a report embodying this information; but it would take too much time to consult these documents. He prefers to remember.

So, Sunday morning the trumpeter sounds the vaguemestre’s call, that is to say, executes a sort of flourish that signifies:

“All who have received money-orders through the post must come and find the vaguemestre if they desire what is due them.”

This call is so well understood that the soldiers respond promptly, and without hesitation, whereupon colloquies of this kind ensue:

THE VAGUEMESTRE. Private Demanet, you have received twelve francs.

PRIVATE DEMANET. Yes, lieutenant Vaguemestre. Private Demanet, your outfit is not yet paid for; you are credited with only eleven francs, which is a deplorable state of things. You must devote your twelve francs to this purpose.

PRIVATE DEMARET. I entreat you, lieutenant--Vaguemestre. Well, then, here are a hundred sous. I will keep back only seven francs. Make out a receipt.

EXAMPLE SECOND.

VAGUEMESTRE. Private Castagnol, you have received fifty francs.

PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. Yes, lieutenant Vaguemestre. Your parents seem to have more money than they know what to do with.

PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. Lieutenant, my family--

VAGUEMESTRE. Ah! I remember, you are a volunteer. Very well, you may go.

PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. But my money?

VAGUEMESTRE. You have eight days in the guard-house to make. Next Sunday, if you are not punished in the meantime, you shall have your money.

PRIVATE OASTAGNOL. But--

VAGUEMESTRE. No remarks.

PRIVATE CASTAGNOL (_turning angrily away_). I shall tell my friends to send bank-notes next time.

The vaguemestre being usually an adjutant, the soldiers address him as lieutenant.

THE ZOUAVE.

Many have talked of the zouave: few know him.

Everybody has seen him lazily squatting at the gates of the Tuileries, like a granite sphinx on the threshold of the Assyrian palaces. He is on guard. He performs his duty with a profoundly melancholy air, smoking his pipe with feverish impatience, or, rather, watching with feverish impatience all the while he is smoking his pipe, some ray of our Parisian sunlight, which seems like moonlight when compared with that fierce African sunshine, which pours down upon the head like molten lead.

A scrap of green or white calico, twisted around a red fez; a blue jacket, trimmed with red or yellow braid, and which leaves the throat entirely bare; full scarlet trousers, cut in the Oriental fashion; white gaiters buttoning above the ankle; this is his costume.

How can one describe the man?

Short, spare, compactly built and muscular, with broad shoulders, square fists, closely shaven head, keen eyes, a mocking smile, and a bold and decided bearing--such is the zouave, the best soldier in the world for bold ventures, skirmishes with outposts, impossible ambuscades, and rapid marches.

Accustomed to the pursuit of the Arab, his constant enemy, the zouave is thoroughly conversant with all the stratagems of desert warfare. He has learned to outwit his savage foes, so he will always surprise the armies of Europe.

“The Arab is very cunning, but the zouave is more cunning still.”

He knows how to conceal himself in a little clump of shrubbery, and steal imperceptibly upon the sentinel whom he wishes to capture; he can advance without a sound, remain motionless for hours together, hide behind the slightest irregularity in the ground, crawl, leap, bound, disappear in the undergrowth that surrounds him, follow a track, and shun all the traps that are set for him.

As a sharp-shooter, he has no equal.

If a position is to be taken, he dashes forward, with head down, overturning everything in his passage. It is no longer a man; it is a bullet. Once started on his course, he reaches the goal or dies.

The zouave cordially detests large cities, and regards garrisons with abhorrence.

In garrison life, the discipline becomes too irksome; he must polish his cartridge-box, whiten his shoulder-belt, wash his clothes, mount guard at regular hours, appear at parade--all wearisome enough to the average trooper, but insupportable to the zouave.

The zouave needs the freedom of camp life, the free range of an enemy’s country, a _ragoût_ improvised under a tent. It matters not if his canteen is only three-quarters full, and if the supply of coffee is running short, so he has but a morsel of no matter what to appease his hunger, he sings, he is gay, he is happy, he is himself.

It is true that when he is not happy, he is equally gay, and sings even more loudly.

The zouave owes his fondness for adventure and his almost nomadic habits to the African war. In constantly pursuing the Arabs through deserts and over mountains, he has formed habits of living very like those of these wandering tribes.

Like the philosopher Bias, the zouave carries all his possessions about with him, which proves, perhaps, that he is something of a philosopher.

But you should see a zouave’s knapsack when he is starting on an expedition. It is monstrous; one wonders if he will not sink beneath his burden, and be compelled to cast it aside. He would rather die. Besides, it seems to be the universal belief that he does not feel the weight of it.

Usually, on taking the field, the infantry lighten their load as much as possible; the officers not only permit this, but require it.

It is not so with the zouave. This seems to be the very time that his burden must be heaviest He reduces his effects to the smallest possible compass, rolls them, squeezes them, and then crowds them, and crowds them, until the straps become too short and the distended knapsack threatens to burst.

There is a little of everything in the zouave’s load. An enumeration of its contents would sound like the inventory of three distinct establishments;--a drug, a haberdashery, and a grocery store.

He has thread, needles, buttons, soap, wax, tallow, a thimble, a fork, one or two spoons, and several knives, to say nothing of the condiments indispensable in the concoction of a savory _ragoût_.

For the zouave is a gourmand. It is to satisfy his fastidious tastes in this direction that, having no servant at his command, he has made himself the best cook in Europe.

His _ragoûts_ might not make his fortune in Paris; but in Africa, in the desert, how many generals have smacked their lips over them!

Any one can make a savory dish of stewed rabbit _with_ a rabbit; but to make it _without_ a rabbit, that is a difficult task, quite worthy of a zouave.

His fertile imagination never shines as brilliantly as when the larder is empty; then, he employs all his wits; he searches, he invents. On such days, he dines admirably; but how many strange animals are made to turn from their usual path to take the road to the saucepan.

“I do not ask my zouaves for strawberries,” said Marshal, then Colonel Canrobert, one frightfully hot day, in the middle of the desert; “but if I really desired some, they are quite capable of discovering them in the sand.”

To-day the zouave is the most popular of all our soldiers; his _chachia_ threatens to pass down to posterity with the towering bear-skin cap worn by the grenadiers of the First Empire.

It is to the zouave that we owe the words of the celebrated march known as the “Casquette.” This is the origin of it:

One night the French camp was surprised by Arabs. A murderous fire so astonished our soldiers, that they almost wavered at first; but Marshal Bugeaud rushed from his tent, and his presence inspiring our troops with their wonted enthusiasm, the enemy was repulsed.

When the conflict was ended, the marshal noticed that every one smiled on looking at him. He raised his hands to his head. In his haste, he had left his tent adorned with the anything but heroic head-gear of the King of Yvetot; in short, a night-cap.

The next day, when the trumpets gave the signal for the troops to resume their march, the zouaves, in memory of that original coifiure, sung in deafening chorus:

“As-tu vu La casquette La casquette, As-tu vu La casquette, Du Père Bugeaud?”

Two or three days afterward, the marshal, on giving the order for departure, said to the trumpeters: “Boys, sound _la casquette_.”

So this name still clings to the order. To how many victories it has led, and will lead the zouaves!

Father Bugeaud’s _casquette_, by insuring the success of “Duc Job,” yielded eighty thousand francs to the Théâtre Français, and sixty thousand francs to M. Léon Laya.

It is a night-cap well worth the having.

THE FANTASSIN, OR FOOT-SOLDIER.

The fantassin, _par excellence_, is a soldier of the regular infantry. The cavalry pretend that the foot-soldier wears spurs on his elbows, but this is only a stale joke perpetrated before the bayonet came into general use.

The regular infantry is really the French army. It has shed its blood upon every battle-field, and has come off victorious again and again. It is the infantry that has carried the standards of France through conquered Europe. It is the regular infantry which, without shoes, provisions, or artillery, swept down from the Alps upon Italy. It is the infantry that fought at the Pyramids, at Eylau and at Moscow. The infantry is the queen of battles; with her one can go in any direction and always maintain one’s position.

There is nothing brilliant about the infantry uniform, and yet when seen in masses it produces an excellent effect. It is also the most comfortable and the best adapted to all the needs of a soldier in the field.

At reviews, upon the parade ground, and on the boulevards there are, perhaps, regiments that attract more attention; but such is not the case if it is seen in line of battle. One should see it maneuvering under fire with the same precision as on the Champs de Mars. Each regiment has become a corps, with its officers at its head. A cannon-ball cuts down an entire file. “Close up the ranks!” The ranks are closed; the void is filled without haste, disorder, or confusion.

Nothing could be more beautiful, nothing could be more magnificent than a regiment of the line advancing for a bayonet charge upon the enemy. Search the ranks; examine one by one these soldiers blackened with powder, try to find the foot-soldier you have seen lounging about the shop windows in large cities, with his shako on the back of his head. The lounger of yesterday is the hero of to-day. Now, danger illumines every face; courage, like an aureole, shines resplendent on every brow. All honor to the regulars! upon their banners is written our glorious history!

The foot-soldier in garrison bears no resemblance whatever to the hero of the battle-field. He does not even remember his exploits of yesterday; he little suspects the great deeds he will perform to-morrow should France have need of his devotion and courage.

The foot-soldier in garrison is the best and most inoffensive of men, always trying to make himself useful, ever ready to do a favor. His tastes are simple, and his desires modest; boisterous amusements have no attractions for him, and he rarely indulges in the bottle.

The foot-soldier, like all the members of his profession, is generally in straitened circumstances.

“For in France as in Austria The soldier is not rich, Every one knows that.”

It is true that one can not indulge in much extravagance on five centimes a day. Fortunately there are ways to increase this meager income. In many regiments, the soldiers are allowed to find occupation in the city, provided, of course, that discipline does not suffer thereby. Those who have a trade devote all their leisure time to it; those who have only their two hands and their good-will--and they are by far the largest number--nevertheless find a way to make themselves useful. In some _bourgeoisie_ households they hire a soldier to take care of the garden and scrub the floors.

There is also another source of revenue which, though not the most honorable, is certainly the most in vogue; this is playing a trick on one’s family.

The fraud is generally suggested by some old grumbler who is an adept in the art of deception. A mischievously inclined volunteer, who is a good penman, generally writes the letter. Illness is the usual pretext. It is the simplest of all, and seldom fails to produce the desired effect. How can you suppose that parents will refuse to forward a few francs on receiving from their child a letter beginning thus:

“Dear Mother,--The object of this letter is to inform you that I am in the hospital.”

The family send money. A letter arrives, inclosing a post-office order. The vaguemestre quickly changes it into shining coin. But alas! this money vanishes like a dream. And how could it be otherwise? So many friends must have a share of this windfall. First, there is the bedfellow, then the inventor of the trick, then the writer, then two or three comrades, fellow-countrymen--then a corporal who has been obliging, and many others. Besides, it is not considered seemly for a trooper to spend his money alone.

A soldier who goes out alone, and who drinks alone, is disgraced in the eyes of his comrades.

When he has finished his daily task at the barracks, polished his weapons, and answered to his name at roll-call, the foot-soldier is at liberty, provided he is not on duty, or on guard, or on the _corveê_, or undergoing punishment, and he can leave the barracks if he chooses. Generally he is eager to improve the opportunity. There must be something of importance to detain him if he does not go out; a letter to write, some little job to do, a pipe of unusual length to color for an officer who is making a collection. But such instances are rare. He loves long walks. If he is stationed in a small town, you can always meet him in the shady paths in the suburbs. He is generally cutting little switches to beat his clothing.

If he is in a large city, he has a variety of amusements. He delights in gazing into the shop-windows; he haunts the promenades and the public gardens; mountebanks always find in him a patient and appreciative patron, ever ready to laugh at their stale jokes. The mountebank and the fantassin have had a mutual understanding for a long time. “Walk in. Walk in, gentlemen and ladies. Admission is ten centimes; two sous. The military only half-price.”

But there is no place like Paris for the soldier. Wine is a trifle dear; but how many diversions there are. This is a city! one can stroll about five hours without danger of seeing the same objects. Moreover, Paris contains the Jardin des Plantes, and the Jardin des Plantes is, as every one knows, the soldier’s earthly Paradise.

There, he can spend his hours of liberty most delightfully. He visits, in succession, all the cabinets of natural history. He almost splits his sides laughing as he stands before the monkey’s palace, watching the pranks of its occupants; he goes into ecstasies over the wild animals, and shudders while contemplating the reptiles. But his favorites are the bear and the elephant. He never leaves the Jardin des Plantes until he has seen Martin climb the tree, and given the elephant a crust of bread, held in reserve in his cap--for want of pantaloon pockets.

But the foot-soldier would be a body without a soul, if he had no countrywoman. The payse, as he styles her, has been created for the fantassin, as the fantassin has been created for the payse. They love and understand each other. He accompanies the payse, who is usually a child’s nurse, in her walks; he assists her in watching the children, when he does not prevent her from watching them; on the promenade, the fantassin seats himself near the payse and pours sweet nothings into her ears, while the children play on the gravel-walk. “Honi soit qui mal y pense!”

In spite of the fatigue that results from it, the foot-soldier loves a change of garrison. He goes cheerfully from one end of France to the other, singing as he plods along. Every day, before two o’clock, his legs fail him, which does not prevent him from strolling around to see the curiosities of the neighborhood as soon as he reaches the town where he is to spend the night.

The _billet_ troubles the soldier a little. It is like a ticket in a lottery. Some are very good, some are bad. As a general thing, the soldier is cordially received; though the contrary happens sometimes. So far as the fantassin is concerned, he hardly ever abuses the hospitality accorded him. The _billet_ is considered very good when the people of the house invite the soldier to share their dinner. It is a saving of time and of money for him. The fantassin is overjoyed, and to repay his entertainers, he tells them his history.

When his term of service expires and he returns to his fireside, the soldier does not presume upon his superiority. He talks freely but not boastingly of his travels and campaigns. He always finds attentive auditors, for we all love and respect the old defenders of France.

Some accuse the fantassin of being too unsophisticated; there are occasions when simplicity of speech is the height of eloquence.

“What were you doing at Solferino?” some one once asked a soldier.

“I?--I was doing like the rest--killing and being killed,” he replied modestly.

Sublimely artless speech in which is summed up all the philosophy of war.

THE SOLDIER OF THE LIGHT INFANTRY;

OR, THE CHASSEUR.

He does not walk; he runs; he is truly the soldier of his age--an age of steam. He comes from Vincennes to Paris in thirty-five minutes; it takes a first class _fiacre_ just twice as long.

The light infantry has given abundant proofs of courage. It was in Africa, in 1842, that it received the baptism of fire, a glorious baptism.

From the very first the chasseurs inspired the Arabs with unconquerable terror. It is true that everything combines to give them a frightful appearance in battle; their somber costume, their strange evolutions, the shrill sound of their trumpets, make them resemble, seen in the midst of the smoke, a legion of unchained devils.

When the Arabs saw them advancing on the run they took flight.

The chasseurs have a terrible weapon. Their rifles, which are loaded with oblong balls, pierce a board fifty millimeters in thickness at a distance of more than a quarter of a mile; and as all the chasseurs are excellent marksmen, they make frightful havoc in the enemy’s ranks.

It is amusing to see the profound astonishment of the Arabs wounded at such a distance. They believe there is some witchcraft about it.