Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune. Lever Charles James
there. They’ve given you no grade yet, I see,’ continued he, looking at my arm.
‘None; I am still a private.’
‘And I a sous-lieutenant, just because I have been where powder was flashing! You can ride well, of course?’
‘I defy the wildest Limousin to shake me in my saddle.’
‘And, as a swordsman, what are you?’
‘Gros Jean calls me his best pupil.’
‘Ah, true! you have Gros Jean here, the best sabreur in France! And here you are – a horseman, and one of Gros Jean’s élèves– rotting away life in Nancy! Have you any friends in the service?’
‘Not one.’
‘Not one! Nor relations, nor connections?’
‘None. I am Irish by descent. My family are only French by one generation.’
‘Irish! Ah! that’s lucky too,’ said he. ‘Our colonel is an Irishman. His name is Mahon. You’re certain of getting your leave now. I’ll present you to him to-morrow. We are to halt two days here, and before that is over, I hope you’ll have made your last caracole in the riding-school of Nancy.’
‘But remember,’ cried I, ‘that although Irish by family, I have never been there. I know 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.’
‘If I were not a hussar – ’
‘Bah!’ said he, interrupting, ‘what of that? Where shouldst 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 battlefield.’
‘I know that, too,’ said the veteran, with an expression of impatience – ‘and that General Bonaparte will give every boy his epaulettes 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 breastwork with a rule and a pair of compasses?” This is what they called “le génie” “le génie” – 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 moustache.
‘There’s not a child in Nancy won’t laugh at me – they’ll cry, “There goes old Tronchon – he’s like Kléber’s charger, which the German cut the tail off, to make a shako plume!”’
‘I assured him that he might as well pretend to miss one tree in the forest of Fontainebleau – that after furnishing a squadron like myself, his would be still the first beard in the Republic; and at last he yielded, and gave in.
Never did a little damsel of the nursery array her doll with more delighted looks, and gaze upon her handiwork with more self-satisfaction, than did old Tronchon survey me, as, with the aid of a little gum, he decorated my lip with a stiff line of his iron-red beard.
‘Diantre!’ cried he, in ecstasy, ‘if thou ben’t something like a man after all. Who would have thought it would have made such a change? Thou might pass for one that saw real smoke and real fire, any day, lad. Ay! thou hast another look in thine eye, and another way to carry thy head, now! Trust me, thou’lt look a different fellow on the left of the squadron.’
I began to think so too, as I looked at myself in the small triangle of a looking-glass which decorated Tronchon’s wall, under a picture of Kellermann, his first captain. I fancied that the improvement was most decided. I thought that, bating a little over-ferocity, a something verging upon the cruel, I was about as perfect a type of the hussar as need be. My jacket seemed to fit tighter – my pelisse hung more jauntily – my shako sat more saucily on one side of my head – my sabre banged more proudly against my boot – my very spurs jangled with a pleasanter music – and all because a little hair bristled over my lip, and curled in two spiral flourishes across my cheek! I longed to see the effect of my changed appearance, as I walked down the ‘Place Carrière,’ or sauntered into the café where my comrades used to assemble. What will Mademoiselle Josephine say, thought I, as I ask for my petit verre, caressing my moustache thus! Not a doubt of it, what a fan is to a woman a beard is to a soldier! – a something to fill up the pauses in conversation, by blandly smoothing with the finger, or fiercely curling at the point.
‘And so thou art going to ask for thy grade, Maurice?’ broke in Tronchon, after a long silence.
‘Not at all. I am about to petition for employment upon active service. I don’t seek promotion till I have deserved it.’
‘Better still, lad. I was eight years myself in the ranks before they gave me the stripe on my arm. Parbleu! the Germans had given me some three or four with the sabre before that time.’
‘Do you think they ‘ll refuse me, Tronchon?’
‘Not if thou go the right way about it, lad. Thou mustn’t fancy it’s like asking leave from the captain to spend the evening in a guinguette, or to go to the play with thy sweetheart. No, no, boy. It must be done en règle. Thou’lt have to wait on the general at his quarters at four o’clock, when he “receives,” as they call