At this moment Max joined the old soldiers of Napoleon, and was received in significant silence. Potel and Renard each took an arm of their friend, and walked about with him, conversing. Presently Philippe was seen approaching in full dress; he trailed his cane after him with an imperturbable air which contrasted with the forced attention Max was paying to the remarks of his two supporters. Bridau’s hand was grasped by Mignonnet, Carpentier, and several others. This welcome, so different from that accorded to Max, dispelled the last feeling of cowardice, or, if you prefer it, wisdom, which Flore’s entreaties, and above all, her tendernesses, had awakened in the latter’s mind. “We shall fight,” he said to Renard, “and to the death. Therefore don’t talk to me any more; let me play my part well.” After these words, spoken in a feverish tone, the three Bonapartists returned to the group of officers and mixed among them. Max bowed first to Bridau, who returned his bow, and the two exchanged a frigid glance. “Come, gentlemen, let us take our seats,” said Potel. “And drink to the health of the Little Corporal, who is now in the paradise of heroes,” cried Renard. The company poured into the long, low dining-hall of the restaurant Lacroix, the windows of which opened on the market-place. Each guest took his seat at the table, where, in compliance with Philippe’s request, the two adversaries were placed directly opposite to each other. Some young men of the town, among them several Knights of Idleness, anxious to know what might happen at the banquet, were walking about the street and discussing the critical position into which Philippe had contrived to force Max. They all deplored the crisis, though each considered the duel to be inevitable. Everything went off well until the dessert, though the two antagonists displayed, in spite of the apparent joviality of the dinner, a certain vigilance that resembled disquietude. While waiting for the quarrel that both were planning, Philippe showed admirable coolness, and Max a distracting gayety; but to an observer, each was playing a part. When the desert was served Philippe rose and said: “Fill your glasses, my friends! I ask permission to propose the first toast.” “He said _my friends_, don’t fill your glass,” whispered Renard to Max. Max poured out some wine. “To the Grand Army!” cried Philippe, with genuine enthusiasm. “To the Grand Army!” was repeated with acclamation by every voice. At this moment eleven private soldiers, among whom were Benjamin and Kouski, appeared at the door of the room and repeated the toast,-- “To the Grand Army!” “Come in, my sons; we are going to drink His health.” The old soldiers came in and stood behind the officers. “You see He is not dead!” said Kouski to an old sergeant, who had perhaps been grieving that the Emperor’s agony was over. “I claim the second toast,” said Mignonnet, as he rose. “Let us drink to those who attempted to restore his son!”