Tudor was topped by an artilleryman's cap.

Monsieur Mielvaque was bustling about, embarrassed--exactly as at the factory--by the papers he held in his hand; and he had exchanged his eyeglasses for spectacles, which stood for the beginning of his uniform.

Every man talked about himself, and gave details concerning his regiment, his depot, and some personal peculiarity.
"I'm staying," says the adjutant master-at-arms, who rises impeccably in his active service uniform, amid the bustle and the neutral-tinted groups; "I'm not going.

I'm the owner of my rank, and they haven't got the right to send me to join the army." We waited long, and some hours went by.

A rumor went round that we should not go till the next day.