In 1819, a battalion commanded by royalist officers, young men just out of the Maison Rouge, passed through Issoudun on its way to go into garrison at Bourges. Not knowing what to do with themselves in so constitutional a place as Issoudun, these young gentlemen went to while away the time at the cafe Militaire. In every provincial town there is a military cafe. That of Issoudun, built on the place d’Armes at an angle of the rampart, and kept by the widow of an officer, was naturally the rendezvous of the Bonapartists, chiefly officers on half-pay, and others who shared Max’s opinions, to whom the politics of the town allowed free expression of their idolatry for the Emperor. Every year, dating from 1816, a banquet was given in Issoudun to commemorate the anniversary of his coronation. The three royalists who first entered asked for the newspapers, among others, for the “Quotidienne” and the “Drapeau Blanc.” The politics of Issoudun, especially those of the cafe Militaire, did not allow of such royalist journals. The establishment had none but the “Commerce,”--a name which the “Constitutionel” was compelled to adopt for several years after it was suppressed by the government. But as, in its first issue under the new name, the leading article began with these words, “Commerce is essentially constitutional,” people continued to call it the “Constitutionel,” the subscribers all understanding the sly play of words which begged them to pay no attention to the label, as the wine would be the same. The fat landlady replied from her seat at the desk that she did not take those papers. “What papers do you take then?” asked one of the officers, a captain. The waiter, a little fellow in a blue cloth jacket, with an apron of coarse linen tied over it, brought the “Commerce.” “Is that your paper? Have you no other?” “No,” said the waiter, “that’s the only one.” The captain tore it up, flung the pieces on the floor, and spat upon them, calling out,-- “Bring dominos!” In ten minutes the news of the insult offered to the Constitution Opposition and the Liberal party, in the supersacred person of its revered journal, which attacked priests with courage and the wit we all remember, spread throughout the town and into the houses like light itself; it was told and repeated from place to place. One phrase was on everybody’s lips,-- “Let us tell Max!” Max soon heard of it. The royalist officers were still at their game of dominos when that hero entered the cafe, accompanied by Major Potel and Captain Renard, and followed by at least thirty young men, curious to see the end of the affair, most of whom remained outside in the street. The room was soon full. “Waiter, _my_ newspaper,” said Max, in a quiet voice. Then a little comedy was played. The fat hostess, with a timid and conciliatory air, said, “Captain, I have lent it!” “Send for it,” cried one of Max’s friends. “Can’t you do without it?” said the waiter; “we have not got it.”