He 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 profession! Look, sir, it is not yet nine o’clock,
and I have already made thirty trips. I had scarcely time to take my
dram this morning, and in my haste I almost choked myself. How do I know
I shall have time to swallow my absinthe? Shall I even get my breakfast?
That is doubtful. As you see, I invariably reach the cantine an hour
after the others. Everything is eaten, there is nothing left, or
if there is, it is something no one would eat, and consequently
intolerable. Then they bring me an egg. An egg!” (with a bitter laugh),
“an egg! for a man who has been running about all the morning. Never
adopt my profession, sir; my existence is insupportable--a dog’s life!
To-morrow, you may rest assured, I shall tender my resignation and take
my place in the ranks, like the others. But what am I doing? Here I have
lost ten minutes in talking; clear oat, d--n you! I should have had time
to drink my absinthe.”
It must be admitted that the life of the vaguemestre is not a path of
roses.
He is the Mercury of that company of deities known as the staff of a
regiment, and like that mythological courier, he must have wings on his
feet. He is also the superintendent of the regimental post-office; all
letters that come and go pass through his hands; he must know the hours
for the arrival and departure of the mails, carry the letters, and go
after them. If soldiers receive money through the post, they can not
draw it themselves; they carry their order to him, and he draws it
and pays it over to them; so I assure you this officer’s time is fully
occupied. And yet something more than agility is needed, for he must
think of everything. The slightest oversight or the least delay might
produce serious consequences, for forgetfulness and want of punctuality
are severely punished.
In the morning he hastens to the post-office, then to the colonel’s
house to obtain the order of the day; then he rushes back to the
barracks in company with the messenger.
He then hastily sorts the letters, making a separate pile for each
squadron; these he gives to the sergeants, who give them to the
corporals on duty for the week, who distribute them among the soldiers.
But the hour for the report arrives; he hastens after it; then he starts
off again. The report must be submitted to the superior officers. The
lieutenant-colonel is waiting for it; the major is waiting for it,
so the vaguemestre hurries away. On returning, he must stop to see a
captain who has sent for him; besides, the colonel has intrusted him
with a letter to be delivered to a lieutenant who lives at the very end
of the town. What a nuisance! He rushes to the place, but does not find
the lieutenant. The letter is important; the lieutenant must be at the
_café_--lieutenants are always at the _café_--at least, when they are
not at breakfast. The vaguemestre visits the _café_, no lieutenant; at
last, he finds him at his boarding-house and delivers the letter.
He heaves a mighty sigh of relief. Now he can breakfast; he hurries
on with all the fleetness of which his tired limbs are capable; hunger
lends him wings. He reaches the barracks. Alas! the adjutant-major
who has just left the table, stops him in the passage; he has a few
suggestions to make--adjutant-majors always have suggestions to make.
At last he breakfasts in turn; he is the last of all. But it is useless
to describe the experience of the entire day.
The vaguemestre is gifted with an extraordinary memory. Every week, when
he distributes the money received by the soldiers, he knows the exact
condition of each man’s account; he must know if those who are entitled
to money are in disgrace or ill. Every week the sergeant on duty in each
squadron must furnish him with a report embodying this information; but
it would take too much time to consult these documents. He prefers to
remember.
So, Sunday morning the trumpeter sounds the vaguemestre’s call, that is
to say, executes a sort of flourish that signifies:
“All who have received money-orders through the post must come and find
the vaguemestre if they desire what is due them.”
This call is so well understood that the soldiers respond promptly, and
without hesitation, whereupon colloquies of this kind ensue:
THE VAGUEMESTRE. Private Demanet, you have received twelve francs.
PRIVATE DEMANET. Yes, lieutenant Vaguemestre. Private Demanet, your
outfit is not yet paid for; you are credited with only eleven francs,
which is a deplorable state of things. You must devote your twelve
francs to this purpose.
PRIVATE DEMARET. I entreat you, lieutenant--Vaguemestre. Well, then,
here are a hundred sous. I will keep back only seven francs. Make out a
receipt.