I say to you," spoke the _chasseur_, clearly and
eloquently, "be one of us. Decide now, before a doubt mars your better
resolve! You are a young man, though the soulless career of a citizen
has anticipated the whitening of your hairs. Plant your foot; throw back
your shoulders; say 'yes!'"
"I do!" cried Pisgah, with something of the other's enthusiasm; "I was
born a gentleman, I will die a gentleman, or a soldier."
They put Mr. Pisgah among the conscripts recently levied, and he went
about town with a fictitious number in his hat, joining in their
bacchanal choruses. The next day he appeared in white duck jacket and
pantaloons, looking like an overgrown baker's boy, with a chapeau like a
flat, burnt loaf. He was then put through the manual, which seemed to
indicate all possible motions save that of liquoring up, and when he was
so fatigued that he had not the energy even to fall down, he was clasped
in the arms of Madame Francine, who had traced him to the barracks, but
was too late to avert his destiny.
"Oh! _mon amant!_" she cried, falling upon his neck. "Why did you go and
do it? You knew that I did not mean to see you starve."
"You have consigned me to a soldier's grave, woman!" answered Pisgah, in
the deepest tragedy tone.
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