myself, he adds, "and we shall continue with the dictation at three
to-morrow morning." That is what he means by a good night's rest.'

'But has he no hours for his meals, Monsieur de Meneval?' I asked, as I
accompanied the unhappy secretary out of the tent.

'Oh, yes, he has hours, but he will not observe them. You see that it
is already long after dinner time, but he has gone to this review.
After the review something else will probably take up his attention, and
then something else, until suddenly in the evening it will occur to him
that he has had no dinner. "My dinner, Constant, this instant!" he will
cry, and poor Constant has to see that it is there.'

'But it must be unfit to eat by that time,' said I.

The secretary laughed in the discreet way of a man who has always been
obliged to control his emotions.

'This is the Imperial kitchen,' said he, indicating a large tent just
outside the headquarters. 'Here is Borel, the second cook, at the door.
How many pullets to-day, Borel?'

'Ah, Monsieur de Meneval, it is heartrending,' cried the cook. 'Behold
them!' and, drawing back the flap of the entrance, he showed us seven
dishes, each of them containing a cold fowl. 'The eighth is now on the
fire and done to a turn, but I hear that His Majesty has started for the
review, so we must put on a ninth.'

'That is how it is managed,' said my companion, as we turned from the
tent. 'I have known twenty-three fowls got ready for him before he