I shall always remember that first outing. I never realised how grotesque a figure I was cutting, until I met another _Volontaire_ in the same plight as myself. I had, besides, been so terrified by the warning I had received not to fail to salute Corporals, especially of the infantry--as a feud always exists between infantry and cavalry--that whenever I saw a soldier with a red woollen stripe on his sleeve, I saluted at once. For this I was unmercifully chaffed by some troopers of my squadron who happened to pass while I was solemnly saluting an infantry man just adorned. They ultimately explained to me that only men with two stripes held the rank of Corporal, while those who had but a single stripe were merely first-class privates--_i.e._, men drawing higher pay for good conduct. For my blunder I had to pay a fine to my comrades, taking them to the nearest café to have a drink. Although we were not allowed to have rooms in the town, most of the _Volontaires_ had engaged lodgings before joining the regiment. As I have already said, I had engaged a room at the Crown Hotel, and, as every year the best set among the _Volontaires_ had been in the habit of putting up there, special accommodation was reserved for them: even a private dining-room was retained for us, and when I arrived there that evening, I found six of my comrades having an appetiser in our special room. They were all young men of good and well-known families: besides Walter, of whom I have already spoken, there were Cuffet, whose father had been a Cabinet Minister a few years before; Pager de la Tasherie, whose father had been an Ambassador; Meix, now the head of one of the largest engineering firms in France; de Nevers, who succeeded, some years ago, to a dukedom, and a couple of others, also of gentle birth. The greatest comfort we found at the hotel was the possibility of getting a tub, for we soon discovered the absolute lack of sanitary arrangements in our barracks. We had a pleasant dinner that night, and having taken off our tight-fitting tunics, we almost felt like civilised beings. We were, however, soon recalled to the reality of our position by the rolling of drums and the sounding of bugles. It was the tattoo. In every French garrison town, a quarter of an hour before soldiers have to be in barracks, the trumpeters, and, if there is an infantry regiment in the place, the buglers and drummers, assemble in the principal square and thence march back to barracks playing the _retraite_. We hurried over our coffee and returned to barracks. For fear of being late we walked as fast as we could, but one or two of us got entangled in our spurs or fell head over heels over our swords.