I t’s a very short time ago, yesterday as it were, that one Sunday afternoon about four o’clock, the whole Quartier du Marais was in an uproar. Rumor asserted that one of the most respectable merchants in the Hue Boi-de-Sicile had disappeared, and all efforts to find him continued fruitless. The strange event was discussed in all the shops in the neighborhood; there were groups at the doors of all the fruit-sellers, every moment some terrified housewife arrived, bringing fresh particulars. The g

T he very day after M. Jandidier’s disappearance, Maitre Magloire appeared at the Palais de justice to report what he had done to the magistrate in charge of the affair. “Ah! there you are, Monsieur Magloire,” said the magistrate; “so you’ve discovered something?” “I am on the trail, monsieur.” “Speak.” “To begin with, Monsieur Jandidier did not leave home at half past six o’clock, but precisely seven.” “Precisely?” “Precisely. I ascertained that from a clock-maker in the Rue Saint Denis, who is

T wo hours after Maitre Magloire’s report, the police went to search Jules Tarot’s house. At sight of the officers, the workman and his wife turned deadly pale, and were seized with a nervous tremor that could not escape Maitre Magloire’s practiced eye, Yet the most thorough investigation failed to detect anything suspicious, and the policemen were about to withdraw, when the detective noticed Tarot’s wife glance anxiously at a cage hung in the window. This was a ray of light. In less than an in

A week after, the magistrate was still greatly perplexed. Three more examinations had not enabled him to come to any fixed conclusion. Were Tarot and his wife innocent? Were they simply marvelously clever in maintaining a probable story? The magistrate knew not what to think, when one morning a strange rumor spread abroad. The Maison Jandidier had failed. A detective sent to make inquiries, brought back the most startling news. M. Jandidier, who people supposed to be so rich, was ruined, utterly

T hanks to M. Gustave Schmidt, who will marry Mlle. Thérèse Jandidier next month, the Maison Jandidier did not fail. Tarot and his wife, on being restored to liberty, were set up in business by the same M. Gustave, and no longer go junketing on Mondays. But what has become of M. Jandidier? A thousand francs reward for news of him!...

S he may be young or old, dazzlingly pretty or frightfully ugly; in this case looks make no difference, she is ever and always the same. If there is much that is evil in her composition there is quite as much that is good. She is a woman although—or because—she is a cantinière. This much is certain—she loves the soldier, and is ever ready to do him a service. It is unnecessary to describe the cantinière in her glory; that is to say, at the head of her regiment on review days, arrayed in fall uni

A s a general thing, it is upon the cheeks of his brother soldiers that he serves his apprenticeship—a severe apprenticeship for the cheeks! Heaven preserve you from ever falling into his clutches and testing his dexterity. In former years, before entering the service, he was a carpenter, a mechanic, or a stone-cutter;—his good conduct elevated him to the important position of barber, and since that time he has plied in turn the scissors and razor with more zeal than discretion. This office of b

H e is always busy, very busy, exceedingly busy; that is his specialty. Do not attempt to speak to him, he can not answer you; do not try to stop him, he will march you straight to the guard-house. He does not walk, he runs; he has not an hour to spare, not a moment, not a second. This morning before the odious reveille had driven the soldiers from their narrow couches he was up and dressed, ready to start. Should you succeed in questioning him, this will be his response: “What a life! what a pr

M any have talked of the zouave: few know him. Everybody has seen him lazily squatting at the gates of the Tuileries, like a granite sphinx on the threshold of the Assyrian palaces. He is on guard. He performs his duty with a profoundly melancholy air, smoking his pipe with feverish impatience, or, rather, watching with feverish impatience all the while he is smoking his pipe, some ray of our Parisian sunlight, which seems like moonlight when compared with that fierce African sunshine, which pou

T he fantassin, par excellence , is a soldier of the regular infantry. The cavalry pretend that the foot-soldier wears spurs on his elbows, but this is only a stale joke perpetrated before the bayonet came into general use. The regular infantry is really the French army. It has shed its blood upon every battle-field, and has come off victorious again and again. It is the infantry that has carried the standards of France through conquered Europe. It is the regular infantry which, without shoes, p

H e does not walk; he runs; he is truly the soldier of his age—an age of steam. He comes from Vincennes to Paris in thirty-five minutes; it takes a first class fiacre just twice as long. The light infantry has given abundant proofs of courage. It was in Africa, in 1842, that it received the baptism of fire, a glorious baptism. From the very first the chasseurs inspired the Arabs with unconquerable terror. It is true that everything combines to give them a frightful appearance in battle; their so

But it would be unjust not to say a word concerning the trumpeter of the chasseurs. How the chasseur, laden with his knapsack, rations, weapons, ammunition, and accouterments can run without losing his breath completely, it is difficult to comprehend. But how does the trumpeter, as he runs with the others, find breath to blow his trumpet? That is something one can not comprehend....