“Oh,” said Carpentier, “Philippe is a very deep customer. His conduct before the Supreme Court was a masterpiece of skill.”
“Hallo! Captain Renard,” said a townsman, “they say that wolves do not eat each other, but it seems that Max is going to try a ripping match with Colonel Bridau. It will be no child’s play between men of the old Guard!”
“And you can laugh at it, you townsmen. Because the poor fellow liked a lark at night, you owe him a grudge,” said Major Potel. “But Gilet is a man who could never stay in such a hole as Issoudun without finding something to do.”
“Well, well, gentlemen,” said another, “Max and the Colonel have played the game out. Was not the Colonel bound to avenge his brother Joseph? Do you remember Max’s treachery towards that poor fellow?”
“Bah! an artist!” said Renard.
“But Père Rouget’s leavings are in the balance. They say that Monsieur Gilet was about to pounce on fifty thousand francs a year when the Colonel went to live under his uncle’s roof.”
“Gilet—steal anybody’s money?—Look here, Monsieur Canivet, do not say that anywhere but here, or we will make you eat your words without any sauce to them.”
But worthy Colonel Bridau had the good wishes of all the townspeople.
On the morrow, at about four o’clock, the officers of the Imperial army who resided at Issoudun, or in the neighborhood, were walking to and fro on the marketplace, in front of an eating-house kept by one Lacroix, waiting for Philippe Bridau. The banquet in honor of the anniversary of the Coronation was fixed for five o’clock, military time. Several groups were discussing Maxence’s affairs and his eviction from Rouget’s house, for the private soldiers had also agreed to hold a meeting at a tavern on the Place. Of all the officers, Potel and Renard alone attempted to defend their friend.
“Is it our part to interfere in what goes on between two heirs?” said Renard.
“Max is soft to women,” remarked Potel the cynic.
“Swords will be drawn before long,” said a retired sublieutenant, who now cultivated a market-garden in the upper Baltan. “Though Monsieur Maxence was a fool to go to live with Père Rouget, he would be a coward to take his dismissal like a servant without asking the reason.”
“Certainly,” replied Mignonnet drily. “When an act of folly fails, it becomes a crime.”
Max, who presently joined the old Bonapartist soldiers, was received with very significant silence. Potel and Renard each took an arm, and led Max a little way off to talk to him. At this moment Philippe appeared in the distance in full dress; he dragged his cane with an imperturbable air that contrasted with the deep attention Max was obliged to give to what his two last friends were saying. Philippe shook hands with Mignonnet, Carpentier, and a few others. This reception, so unlike that which Max had just met with, finally dispelled from the mind of the latter certain dawnings of cowardice—or of prudence, if you please—to which Flore’s entreaties, and, above all, her affection, had given rise when at last he had been left face to face with himself.
“We will fight,” said he to Captain Renard, “and to the death! So talk to me no more; leave me to play my part out.”
After these words, spoken in a fever of excitement, the three men rejoined the other groups of officers. Max bowed first to Bridau, who returned the compliment with a very cold stare.
“Come, gentlemen; to dinner,” said Major Potel.
“And to drink to the imperishable glory of the little Crop-head, who is now in the paradise of the brave,” cried Renard.
All the party, feeling that the business of dinner would put them in better countenance, understood the little Light-horse Captain’s intentions. They hurried into the long, low dining-room of the Restaurant Lacroix, of which the windows looked out on the marketplace. Each guest at once took his seat at table, and the adversaries found themselves face to face, as Philippe had requested. Several of the youth of the town, especially the ex-Knights of Idlesse, somewhat uneasy as to what might take place at this dinner, walked about outside, discussing the critical position in which Philippe had contrived to place Maxence Gilet. They deplored the collision, while admitting that a duel was necessary.
All went well till dessert, though the two fighting men kept a sort of watch on each other, not far removed from uneasiness, in spite of the apparent cheerfulness of the meal. Pending the quarrel, which both, no doubt, were meditating, Philippe was admirably cool, and Max boisterously gay; but, to the connoisseur, each was playing a part.
When dessert was on the table, Philippe said:
“Fill your glasses, my friends; I claim permission to propose our first toast.”
“He said ‘My friends’; do not fill your glass,” said Renard in Max’s ear.
But Max poured out some wine.
“The Grand Army!” cried Philippe with genuine enthusiasm.
“The Grand Army!” was repeated like one word by every voice.
At this moment in the doorway there appeared eleven private soldiers, among them Benjamin and Kouski, who all repeated, “The Grand Army!”
“Come in, boys; we are going to drink to his health,” said Major Potel.
The old soldiers came in, and remained standing behind the officers.
“You see, he is not really dead!” said Kouski to an old sergeant, who had, no doubt, been deploring the Emperor’s long agony, now at last ended.
“I claim the second toast,” said Major Mignonnet.
A few of the dessert dishes were disturbed to keep up appearances. Mignonnet rose.
“To those who tried to reinstate his son!” said he.
Everyone, with the exception of Maxence Gilet, lifted his glass to Philippe Bridau.
“It is my turn,” said Max, rising.
“Max!—it is Max!” they were saying outside. Deep silence reigned within and on the marketplace, for Gilet’s temper led them to expect some provocation.
“May we all meet here again this day twelvemonth!” and he bowed ironically to Philippe.
“He is coming on!” said Kouski to his neighbor.
“The Paris police did not allow you to hold such banquets
