On the heath or in the hall,
All alike to him--that's all!

"When the morn is on the sky,
Hark the gay _reveillé_ rings!
Glory lights the soldier's eye,
To the gory breach he springs,
Plants his colours on the wall
Wins and wears the _croix_--that's all!"

The dashing style in which this hereditary song of the French camp was
given by "Colonel Alexandre Jules Cæsar" of the "brave battalion of
the Marais," his capitally awkward imitation of the soldier of the old
_régime_, and his superb affectation of military nonchalance, were so
admirable, that his song excited actual raptures of applause. His
performance was encored, and he was surrounded by a group of nymphs
and graces, among whom his towering figure looked like a grenadier of
Brobdignag in the circle of a Liliputian light company. He carried on
the farce for a while with great adroitness and animation; but at
length he put the circle of tinsel and tiffany aside, and rushing up
to me, insisted on making me a recruit for the "brave battalion of the
Marais." But I had no desire to play a part in this pantomime, and
tried to disengage myself. One word again made me a captive: that word
was now "Lafontaine;" and at the same moment I saw the sylph bounding
to my side. What was I to think of this extraordinary combination? All
was as strange as a midsummer night's dream. The "colonel," as if
fatigued, leaned against the pillar, and slightly removing his mask, I
saw, with sudden rejoicing, the features of that gallant young friend,
whom I had almost despaired of ever seeing again. "Wait in this spot
until I return," was all that I heard, before he and the sylph had