The directors of French theatres are accustomed to send criticisms of the plays which "they regret to be unable to accept." The criticism I received from the director of the Ambigu Theatre was, I thought, highly encouraging. "My play," it appeared, "showed no experience of the stage; but it was full of well-conceived scenes and happy _mots_, and was written in excellent French. Horrors, however, 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 personæ_ 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. * * * * * On the 19th of July, 1870, my regiment left Versailles for the Eastern frontier.