He attudinized in spite of himself, and thought of nothing but
ostentation, and of being noticed. He continually touched his horse with
his spurs, and worried it, so as to make it appear restive, and to prance
and rear, to champ its bit, and to cover it with foam, and then he would
continue his inspection, galloping from regiment to regiment with a
satisfied smile, while the good old infantry captains, sitting on their
thin Arab horses, with their toes well stuck out, said to one another:

"I should not like to have to ride a confounded, restive brute like that,
I know!"

But the General's aide-de-camp, little Jacques de Montboron, could easily
have reassured them, for he knew those famous thoroughbreds, as he had
had to break them in, and had received a thousand trifling instructions
about them.

They were generally more or less spavined brutes, which he had bought at
Tattersall's auctions for a ridiculous price, and so quiet and well in
hand that they might have been held with a silk thread, but with a good
shape, bright eyes, and coats that glistened like silk. They seemed to
know their part, and stepped out, pranced and reared, and made way for
themselves, as if they had just come out of the riding-school at Saumur.

That was his daily task, his obligatory service.

He broke them in, one after another, and transformed them into veritable
mechanical horses, accustomed them to bear the noise of trumpets and
drums, and of firing, without starting, tired them out by long rides the
evening before every review, and bit his lips to prevent himself from