It was at first certainly rather a nuisance changing from Colombes, though I have already got pretty well accustomed to the new situation. The difference was not only in the style of my lodging, beauty of the surrounding country, &c. &c., but also most particularly in our living. Instead of the comfortable, well-served table, and excellent wine of M. Ferdinand, and the new milk, nice fresh butter, and new-laid eggs--produce of my dairy and poultry-yard--here we daily sit down to miserably-cooked soup and _bouilli_, made of ration-beef, and a bad steak of the same, served in ill-cleaned tin (canteen) dishes. Vegetables, to be sure, we have in abundance. Then for wine, we have some very poor stuff, which Ambrose (my surgeon) bought somewhere in Paris, and, from not understanding French, got cheated. At home here I have managed to get up a breakfast, though a poor one; the bread is so abominably sour, and the butter so cheesy. Nor have I been able to dispose of my time in the same agreeable manner as at Colombes; for between the constant attention my wretched troop requires, and the plague of the villagers, I have but little left for amusement. The former of these, the troop, I have quieted a little, by giving one of them a severe flogging; but its disorganised state may be guessed at, when it is known that the payment (contrary to our regulations) is in the hands of the sergeant-major, and that my predecessor, poor Bean, died in debt to this man at least £300. Of course everything was winked at.