We looked in vain for pretty women, and the reader may be assured that some of our researches were of the most elaborate description. Not a trace of the boasted Grecian beauty was to be found in those oddly-dressed females, whose costume seemed a mere oval bale of clothing (the feridjee), surmounted by a white linen veil, and ending in boots of yellow leather, as they flitted like fat ghosts about the public wells, or the gates of the great bazaar. All were, indeed, plain even to ugliness, save in one instance—pretty little Magdhalini, the daughter of the miller, Steriopoli. I remember a charming vivandière, who belonged to the 2nd Zouaves, for I saw her frequently under circumstances that could never be forgotten—in fact, under fire, at the head of the regiment. She was a smart little Parisienne, possessed of great beauty, with eyes that sparkled like the diamonds in her ears. She wore a pretty blue Zouave jacket, braided with red, over a pretty chemisette, and had her black hair smoothly braided under a scarlet kepi, which bore the regimental number. The first time I saw Sophie she was simply maintaining a flirtation with one of the corps, to whom she gave a mouthful of brandy from her barrel, as he stood on sentry under my window, and their banter rather interfered with the composition of a letter which I was writing to my cousin Cora. "Ah, Mademoiselle Sophie," said the Zouave, in his most dulcet tone, "you—_mon Dieu_—you look so lovely that——" "That what—what—Jules?" "Well, so lovely this morning that I am quite afraid——" "To kiss me—is it not so, Monsieur Jolicoeur?" "Yes." "_Très bien_. Take courage, _mon camarade_." "Mademoiselle Sophie, you quiz me!" "A Zouave, and afraid," exclaimed the vivandière; and then followed a little sound there was no mistaking. "You are indeed beautiful, Sophie. There is not a vivandière in the whole French army like you." "Yet I may die an old maid," said she demurely. "May?" "Yes, Jules." "Then it will be your own fault, _ma belle coquette_, and not the fault of others." "_Parbleu_! I sha’n’t marry a Zouave, at all events." "Don’t speak so cruelly, Sophie. When I look on your charming face, I always think of glorious Paris. Paris! Ah, _mon Dieu!_ shall we ever see it again?" "Why did you leave it, Jules, and your studies at the Ecole de Médecin, to fight and starve here?" "Why?" exclaimed the student. "Yes, _mon ami_." "The old girl at the wheel, Madame Fortune, proved false to me. I lost my last money, fifty Napoleons, at the rouge-et-noir table in the Palais Royal. I was ruined, Sophie; and as I had no wish to jump into the Seine, and then to figure next morning on the leaden tables of the Morgue, like a salmon at the fishmonger’s, I joined the 2nd Zouaves in the snapping of a flint, and so—am here." "You will return with your epaulettes and the cross, Jules." "I don’t think so. Kiss me, at all events, _ma belle_." "Well, camarade, if it will console you——"