Towards four o’clock the following day, the officers of the old army who were at Issoudun or its environs, were sauntering about the place du Marche, in front of an eating-house kept by a man named Lacroix, and waiting the arrival of Colonel Philippe Bridau.  The banquet in honor of the coronation was to take place with military punctuality at five o’clock.  Various groups of persons were talking of Max’s discomfiture, and his dismissal from old Rouget’s house; for not only were the officers to dine at Lacroix’s, but the common soldiers had determined on a meeting at a neighboring wine-shop.  Among the officers, Potel and Renard were the only ones who attempted to defend Max.

“Is it any of our business what takes place among the old man’s heirs?” said Renard.

“Max is weak with women,” remarked the cynical Potel.

“There’ll be sabres unsheathed before long,” said an old sub-lieutenant, who cultivated a kitchen-garden in the upper Baltan.  “If Monsieur Maxence Gilet committed the folly of going to live under old Rouget’s roof, he would he a coward if he allowed himself to be turned off like a valet without asking why.”

“Of course,” said Mignonnet dryly.  “A folly that doesn’t succeed becomes a crime.”

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.