There was a general uncovering of heads, and here and there a hurrah
was heard; and the Emperor raised his head as he passed; his face
looked drawn, the eyes were dim and watery. He had the dazed
appearance of one suddenly aroused from slumber, smiled faintly at
sight of the cheerful inn, and saluted. From behind them Maurice and
Jean distinctly heard old Bouroche growl, having first surveyed the
sovereign with his practiced eye:

"There's no mistake about it, that man is in a bad way." Then he
succinctly completed his diagnosis: "His jig is up!"

Jean shook his head and thought in his limited, common sense way: "It
is a confounded shame to let a man like that have command of the army!"
And ten minutes later, when Maurice, comforted by his good breakfast,
shook hands with Prosper and strolled away to smoke more cigarettes,
he carried with him the picture of the Emperor, seated on his
easy-gaited horse, so pale, so gentle, the man of thought, the
dreamer, wanting in energy when the moment for action came. He was
reputed to be good-hearted, capable, swayed by generous and noble
thoughts, a silent man of strong and tenacious will; he was very
brave, too, scorning danger with the scorn of the fatalist for whom
destiny has no fears; but in critical moments a fatal lethargy seemed
to overcome him; he appeared to become paralyzed in presence of
results, and powerless thereafter to struggle against Fortune should
she prove adverse. And Maurice asked himself if his were not a special
physiological condition, aggravated by suffering; if the indecision
and increasing incapacity that the Emperor had displayed ever since
the opening of the campaign were not to be attributed to his manifest
illness. That would explain everything: a minute bit of foreign
substance in a man's system, and empires totter.