night, it was said, at which M. Rouher, the former vice-Emperor, had
been present; he had been sent by the Empress to accelerate the
movement toward Verdun, and it would seem that the marshal had
succeeded in convincing him of the rashness of such an undertaking.
Were there unfavorable tidings from Bazaine? no one could say for
certain. But the absence of news was itself a circumstance of evil
omen, and all among the most influential of the generals had cast
their vote for the march on Paris, for which they would be the
relieving army. And Maurice, happy in the conviction that the
retrograde movement would commence not later than the morrow, since
the orders for it were said to be already issued, thought he would
gratify a boyish longing that had been troubling him for some time
past, to give the go-by for one day to soldier's fare, to wit and eat
his breakfast off a cloth, with the accompaniment of plate, knife and
fork, carafe, and a bottle of good wine, things of which it seemed to
him that he had been deprived for months and months. He had money in
his pocket, so off he started with quickened pulse, as if going out
for a lark, to search for a place of entertainment.

It was just at the entrance of the village of Courcelles, across the
canal, that he found the breakfast for which his mouth was watering.
He had been told the day before that the Emperor had taken up his
quarters in one of the houses of the village, and having gone to
stroll there out of curiosity, now remembered to have seen at the
junction of the two roads this little inn with its arbor, the
trellises of which were loaded with big clusters of ripe, golden,
luscious grapes. There was an array of green-painted tables set out in
the shade of the luxuriant vine, while through the open door of the
vast kitchen he had caught glimpses of the antique clock, the colored
prints pasted on the walls, and the comfortable landlady watching the