ut 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.

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 fu