In front of him, beyond the barrack gates that closed in the courtyard of the huge building, stretched a circle of hills with villas nestling in the purple branches of the trees, and sparkling in the morning sun. There resided the actresses and light women brought to the town by the presence of Private Bonmont. A whole swarm of women, bookmakers, journalists belonging to sporting and military papers, jockeys, procurers, male and female, and swindlers of all descriptions, had settled down in the vicinity of the barracks where the rich conscript was serving his time. As he peeled the potatoes, he might have congratulated himself on being able to bring together so Parisian a society at so great a distance from Paris. But he knew life well and men better, so his pride was in no way flattered by the achievement. He was worried and morose. Life held only one ambition for him, and that was the badge of the Brécé Hunt. He longed for it with inherited tenacity, with the forcefulness that his father, the great Baron, had shown in his conquest of souls, bodies, and things, but not with the deep, clear-sighted thought or genius of his stupendous parent. He felt himself inferior to his wealth; this made him unhappy, and, in consequence, spiteful. “They only give their blessed badge to dukes and peers, I know,” he reflected. “The Brécés are overrun with Americans and Jewesses, and I’m as good as they any day!” He threw his peeled potato angrily into the cauldron, at which Private Cocot, with a big laugh and a big oath, cried out: “There he goes, upsetting the broth, damn him!” And Briqueballe, who was a simple soul, and of the same year, made merry at the jest. He rejoiced, too, at the thought that he would soon see his father, who was a harness-maker at Cayeux, and his home again. “That old hypocrite Guitrel will do nothing for me,” thought Private Bonmont. “He is a clever chap is Guitrel, cleverer than I ever thought. He has made his own conditions. So long as he is not bishop he will not say anything to his friends, the Brécés. He is a deep beggar, and no mistake!” “Bonmont,” said Briqueballe, “stop chucking the peelings into the pot!” “It’s a dirty trick!” said Cocot. “I’m not on duty this week,” objected Bonmont. Thus spoke these three men because they were on an equal footing. Bonmont went on thinking: “I can do without Guitrel. There are plenty of others who will get the badge for me. Terremondre, for instance; he knows the Brécés well. His family is quite good, and he’s all right--but not to be relied upon; he’s a dodger, a regular dodger! He’ll promise everything and do nothing.” “I couldn’t very well ask old Traviès, who goes out helping Rivoire the poacher. There is General Cartier de Chalmot; he’d only have to open his mouth--but the old crock hates me.”