They called for Monsieur Follenvie, but the servant told them that
on account of his asthma, that gentleman never got up before ten
o'clock. He had even left formal orders not to wake him up earlier,
except in case of fire.

They wanted to see the officer, but it was absolutely impossible,
although he lodged in the inn. Mr. Follenvie only was authorized
to speak to him about civil matters. Then they waited. The women
went up to their rooms and got busy with their trifles.

Cornudet sat down and made himself comfortable in front of the high
fireplace of the kitchen, in which a big fire was blazing. He had
one of the small tables of the Cafe brought there, ordered a jug
of beer, and drew out his pipe which, among the democrats, enjoyed
a consideration almost equal to his own, as if it had served the
country in serving Cornudet. It was a superb meerschaum pipe,
admirably blackened, as black as its master's teeth, but fragrant,
nicely curved, shining, familiar to his hand, and completing his
physiognomy. And he remained still, his eyes fixed now on the
flame of the fire, now on the foam crowning his jug; and every
time, after he had drunk, he passed, with an air of satisfaction,
his thin, long fingers in his flowing greasy hair, while he sucked
his mustache fringed with foam.

Loiseau, under pretence of stretching his legs, went out to sell
wine to the dealers of the village. The Count and the manufacturer
began to talk politics. They were forecasting France's future. The
one kept faith in the Orleans dynasty, the other expected an unknown
savior, a hero who would rise up when everything was desperate: