Such lives, such lives, too, morbleu!" And he drained his absinthe thoughtfully, musing on the marvelous vicissitudes of war, and on the patrician blood, the wasted wit, the Beaumarchais talent, the Mirabeau power, the adventures like a page of fairy tale, the brains whose strength could have guided a scepter, which he had found and known, hidden under the rough uniform of a Zephyr; buried beneath the canvas shirt of a Roumi; lost forever in the wild, lawless escapades of rebellious insubordinates, who closed their days in the stifling darkness of the dungeons of Beylick, or in some obscure skirmish, some midnight vedette, where an Arab flissa severed the cord of the warped life, and the death was unhonored by even a line in the Gazettes du Jour.
"Faith!" laughed Chanrellon, regardless of the General's observation, "if we all published our memoirs, the world would have a droll book.
Dumas and Terrail would be beat out of the field.

The real recruiting sergeants that send us to the ranks would be soon found to be--" "Women!" growled the General.
"Cards," sighed the Colonel.
"Absinthe," muttered another.
"A comedy that was hissed." "The spleen." "The dice." "The roulette." "The natural desire of humanity to kill or to get killed!" "Morbleu!" cried Chanrellon, as the voices closed, "all those mischiefs beat the drum, and send volunteers to the ranks, sure enough; but the General named the worst.

Look at that little Cora; the Minister of War should give her the Cross.

She sends us ten times more fire-eaters than the Conscription does.

Five fine fellows--of the vieille roche too--joined to-day, because she has stripped them of everything, and they have nothing for it but the service.