were too piled up, and I seemed to
have forgotten that spectators should be allowed time to take breath
and wipe away their tears."

I was finally advised not to kill all my _dramatis personae_ in my next
dramatic production, as it was customary for one of them to come
forward and announce the name of the author at the end of the first
performance.

Although this little bit of advice appeared to me not altogether free
from satire, there was in the letter more praise than I had expected,
and I felt proud and happy. The letter was passed round in the
class-room, commented upon in the playground, and I was so excited that
I can perfectly well remember how I forgot to learn my repetition that
day, and how I got forty lines of the _Ars Poetica_ to write out five
times.

What a take-down, this imposition upon a budding dramatic author!

* * * * *

Examinations to prepare compelled me for some time to postpone all idea
of astonishing the Paris playgoers with a "new and original" drama.

I took my B.A. at the end of that year, and my B.Sc. at the end of the
following one. Three years later I was leaving the military school with
the rank of sub-lieutenant.

My uniform was lovely; and if I had only had as much gold in my pockets
as on my shoulders, sleeves, and breast, I think I ought to have been
the happiest being on earth.

The proudest day of a young French officer's life is the day on which
he goes out in the street for the first time with all his ironmongery
on, his moustache curled up, his cap on his right ear, his sabre in his
left hand. The soldiers he meets salute him, the ladies seem to smile
approvingly upon him; he feels like the conquering hero of the day; all
is bright before him; battles only suggest to him victories and
promotions.

On the first day, his mother generally asks to accompany him, and takes
his arm. Which is the prouder of the two? the young warrior, full of
confidence and hope, or the dear old lady who looks at the passers-by
with an air that says: "This is my son, ladies and gentlemen. As for
you, young ladies, he can't have all of you, you know."

Poor young officer! dear old mother! They little knew, in 1869, that in
a few months one would be lying in a military hospital on a bed of
torture, and the other would be wondering for five mortal months
whether her dear and only child was dead, or prisoner in some German
fortress.