In the clear light of early morning the quarters were full of the passing to and fro of the men on duty, sweeping the cobbles, or grooming down the horses. At the far end of the yard, clothed in his canvas trousers and dirty blouse, stood Private Bonmont, with his comrades, Privates Cocot and Briqueballe, peeling potatoes in front of a cauldron full of water. Now and then a squad, under the conduct of a non-commissioned officer, rushed down the stairs like a torrent, scattering on its way the invincible gaiety of the young.

The most characteristic feature of these men who had been taught to march was their step, a heavy, laboured step, crushing and sonorous. Important-looking pay-sergeants continually passed by with account-books of all sizes under their arms. Privates Bonmont, Cocot and Briqueballe were peeling potatoes and throwing them into the cauldron, and as they did so they gave vent to the most harmless of thoughts in words that were few but of an exceeding coarseness. Private Bonmont was thinking deeply.

In front of him, beyond the barrack gates that closed in the courtyard of the huge building, stretched a circle of hills with villas nestling in the purple branches of the trees, and sparkling in the morning sun. There resided the actresses and light women brought to the town by the presence of Private Bonmont. A whole swarm of women, bookmakers, journalists belonging to sporting and military papers, jockeys, procurers, male and female, and swindlers of all descriptions, had settled down in the vicinity of the barracks where the rich conscript was serving his time. As he peeled the potatoes, he might have congratulated himself on being able to bring together so Parisian a society at so great a distance from Paris. But he knew life well and men better, so his pride was in no way flattered by the achievement. He was worried and morose. Life held only one ambition for him, and that was the badge of the BrÉcÉ Hunt. He longed for it with inherited tenacity, with the forcefulness that his father, the great Baron, had shown in his conquest of souls, bodies, and things, but not with the deep, clear-sighted thought or genius of his stupendous parent. He felt himself inferior to his wealth; this made him unhappy, and, in consequence, spiteful.

“They only give their blessed badge to dukes and peers, I know,” he reflected. “The BrÉcÉs are overrun with Americans and Jewesses, and I’m as good as they any day!”

He threw his peeled potato angrily into the cauldron, at which Private Cocot, with a big laugh and a big oath, cried out:

“There he goes, upsetting the broth, damn him!”

And Briqueballe, who was a simple soul, and of the same year, made merry at the jest. He rejoiced, too, at the thought that he would soon see his father, who was a harness-maker at Cayeux, and his home again.

“That old hypocrite Guitrel will do nothing for me,” thought Private Bonmont. “He is a clever chap is Guitrel, cleverer than I ever thought. He has made his own conditions. So long as he is not bishop he will not say anything to his friends, the BrÉcÉs. He is a deep beggar, and no mistake!”

“Bonmont,” said Briqueballe, “stop chucking the peelings into the pot!”

“It’s a dirty trick!” said Cocot.

“I’m not on duty this week,” objected Bonmont.

Thus spoke these three men because they were on an equal footing.

Bonmont went on thinking:

“I can do without Guitrel. There are plenty of others who will get the badge for me. Terremondre, for instance; he knows the BrÉcÉs well. His family is quite good, and he’s all right—but not to be relied upon; he’s a dodger, a regular dodger! He’ll promise everything and do nothing.”

“I couldn’t very well ask old TraviÈs, who goes out helping Rivoire the poacher. There is General Cartier de Chalmot; he’d only have to open his mouth—but the old crock hates me.”

These were Private Bonmont’s opinions, and they were not altogether unfounded. General Cartier de Chalmot did not like him. “If little Bonmont were under me I’d make him sit up,” he was in the habit of saying. As for the General’s wife, her indignation regarding him knew no bounds since the day she had heard him say at a ball: “Putting all sentiment aside, mother is too damned lazy.” No, young Bonmont was not mistaken, it was no good looking for help either from the General or his wife.

He searched his memory to try and discover some one to render him the service which Guitrel had refused him. M. Lerond? He was too cautious. Jacques de Courtrai? He was in Madagascar.

Young Bonmont heaved a deep sigh. As he peeled his last potato a sudden inspiration came to him.

“Supposing I made Guitrel a bishop! That would be rich!” As this idea flashed through his brain a torrent of curses sounded in his ears.

“Nom de Dieu! Nom de Dieu! MisÈre de misÈre!” yelled Briqueballe and Cocot, as a shower of soot fell suddenly upon them, around them, and into the cauldron, soiling their wet fingers, and blackening the potatoes, which a moment before had been ivory white.

Looking up to seek the cause of their trouble, they espied through the black shower some of their comrades upon the roof removing a long chimney flue, and shaking out the soot with which it was filled. As they caught sight of them, Cocot and Briqueballe cried as with one voice:

“Hi! you up there! what the devil are you doing?”

And they hurled at their comrades all the curses their simple souls could conjure up. They were innocent curses, full of genuine anger, and they filled the barrack yard with echoes in the accents of Picardy and Burgundy. Then the face of Sergeant Lafile, with its slight moustache, appeared over the edge of the roof, and, amid the sudden silence, a sarcastic voice rasped out these words:

“Three days for you two down there. Do you understand?”

Briqueballe and Cocot stood overwhelmed by the hard blows of fate and discipline, while their companion, Private Bonmont, reflected:

“I can make a bishop right enough. I’ve only got to speak to Huguet, and it’s done!”

Huguet was then president of the council. His cabinet was a moderate one, supported by the Conservatives. When forming it, Huguet had been careful to safeguard capital, gaining thereby a calm self-confidence and not a little pride. He was Minister of Finance, and was supposed to have given stability to the public credit, which had been shaken by his Radical predecessor.

He had not always been so clever a statesman. He had been a Radical in his hard-working youth, a Radical, and a revolutionary even. He had been private secretary to the late Baron de Bonmont, for whom he wrote books and edited papers. In those days he was a democrat, and a dreamer in matters of finance. That was the baron’s wish, for the great man was anxious to conciliate the progressive factions of Parliament, and therefore liked to appear generous and even something of a dreamer too. This was what he called “giving himself room.” It was he who made his secretary member for Montil; Huguet owed everything to him, and young Bonmont realized all this.

“I shall only have to say the word to Huguet,” he thought. That was how he put it to himself, at any rate. But he was not really sure of it, for he knew that M. Huguet, President of the Council, was careful to avoid any encounter with Private Bonmont, and did not like to be reminded of the old ties that had associated him with the great baron, who had died so opportunely, amid dawning rumours of scandal. So, on second thoughts, Private Bonmont sagely decided that it would be necessary to find some one else.

He sat down upon the ground beside the pump, that he might be able to think more at his ease, and was soon lost in meditation. In his imagination every person who might, he thought, prove capable of disposing of the episcopal crozier and mitre filed in a long procession before him. Monseignor Charlot, M. de Goulet, Worms-Clavelin, the prÉfet, Madame Worms-Clavelin, and M. Lacarelle crossed his mental vision, and many others beside. He was awakened from his reverie by Private Jouvencie, licentiate in law, pumping water down his back.

“Jouvencie,” said Bonmont solemnly, wiping his neck, “what is Loyer minister of?”

“Loyer? Minister of Public Instruction and Public Worship,” replied Jouvencie.

“Does he appoint the bishops?”

“Yes.” “You are sure?”

“Yes, why?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Bonmont.

But to himself he said:

“I’ve got it—Madame de Gromance!”