The camp that evening was all astir with activity; officers were
bustling about with orders and arranging for the start the following
morning at five o'clock. Maurice experienced a shock of surprise and
alarm to learn that once again all their plans were changed, that they
were not to fall back on Paris, but proceed to Verdun and effect a
junction with Bazaine. There was a report that dispatches had come in
during the day from the marshal announcing that he was retreating, and
the young man's thoughts reverted to the officer of chasseurs and his
rapid ride from Monthois; perhaps he had been the bearer of a copy of
the dispatch. So, then, the opinions of the Empress-regent and the
Council of Ministers had prevailed with the vacillating MacMahon, in
their dread to see the Emperor return to Paris and their inflexible
determination to push the army forward in one supreme attempt to save
the dynasty; and the poor Emperor, that wretched man for whom there
was no place in all his vast empire, was to be bundled to and fro
among the baggage of his army like some worthless, worn-out piece of
furniture, condemned to the irony of dragging behind him in his suite
his imperial household, cent-gardes, horses, carriages, cooks, silver
stew-pans and cases of champagne, trailing his flaunting mantle,
embroidered with the Napoleonic bees, through the blood and mire of
the highways of his retreat.

At midnight Maurice was not asleep; he was feverishly wakeful, and his
gloomy reflections kept him tossing and tumbling on his pallet. He
finally arose and went outside, where he found comfort and refreshment
in the cool night air. The sky was overspread with clouds, the
darkness was intense; along the front of the line the expiring
watch-fires gleamed with a red and sullen light at distant intervals,
and in the deathlike, boding silence could be heard the long-drawn