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.’