now nothing of either the people or the language--and do
not present me to the general as his countryman.'

'I'll call you by your name, as a soldier of the 9th Hussars, and leave
you to make out your claim as countrymen, if you please, together.'

This course was now agreed upon, and after some further talking, my
friend, refusing all my offers of a bed, coolly wrapped his cloak about
him, and, with his head on the table, fell fast asleep, long before
I had ceased thinking over his stories and his adventures in camp and
battlefield.

CHAPTER VIII. 'TRONCHON'

My duties in the riding-school were always over before mid-day, and as
noon was the hour appointed by the young lieutenant to present me to his
colonel, I was ready by that time, and anxiously awaiting his arrival. I
had done my best to smarten up my uniform, and make all my accoutrements
bright and glistening. My scabbard was polished like silver, the steel
front of my shako shone like a mirror, and the tinsel lace of my jacket
had undergone a process of scrubbing and cleaning that threatened its
very existence. My smooth chin and beardless upper-lip, however, gave
me a degree of distress that all other deficiencies failed to inflict.
I can dare to say, that no mediaeval gentleman's bald spot ever cost him
one-half the misery as did my lack of moustache occasion me. 'A hussar
without beard, as well without spurs or sabretache'; a tambour major
without his staff, a cavalry charger without a tail, couldn't be more
ridiculous; and there was that old serjeant of the riding-school,
'Tron-chon,' 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 _Moniteurs_ 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.'

'