“You have sworn that you would kill me,” he said to him; “that is mere boasting on your part; you would never dare to do it. Wait a moment; I will try you. Prepare your implements and shave me.” The terrible Plumepate was completely disconcerted. He set to work, but he dared not carry out his threats. Never, on the contrary, did he do a neater job. On another occasion, during a campaign, a barber in one of the regiments of the line was summoned to shave the commander-in-chief. He was badly frightened, and he could but think of the possible consequences should his hand tremble. It did tremble so much that the general’s face was covered with blood when the operation was concluded. The unfortunate barber, terrified by what he had done, shook in every limb, and stammered a thousand excuses. “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: