The moment supper was over every one went to bed, worn out with fatigue.

But Loiseau, who had been making his observations on the sly, sent his wife to bed, and amused himself by placing first his ear, and then his eye, to the bedroom keyhole, in order to discover what he called “the mysteries of the corridor.”

At the end of about an hour he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and caught sight of Boule de Suif, looking more rotund than ever in a dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with white lace.  She held a candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the numbered door at the end of the corridor.  But one of the side doors was partly opened, and when, at the end of a few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his shirt-sleeves, followed her.  They spoke in low tones, then stopped short.  Boule de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her room.  Unfortunately, Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but toward the end of the conversation they raised their voices, and he caught a few words.  Cornudet was loudly insistent.

“How silly you are!  What does it matter to you?” he said.

She seemed indignant, and replied: 

“No, my good man, there are times when one does not do that sort of thing; besides, in this place it would be shameful.”

Apparently he did not understand, and asked the reason.  Then she lost her temper and her caution, and, raising her voice still higher, said: 

“Why?  Can’t you understand why?  When there are Prussians in the house!  Perhaps even in the very next room!”

He was silent.  The patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer herself to be caressed in the neighborhood of the enemy, must have roused his dormant dignity, for after bestowing on her a simple kiss he crept softly back to his room.  Loiseau, much edified, capered round the bedroom before taking his place beside his slumbering spouse.

Then silence reigned throughout the house.  But soon there arose from some remote part—­it might easily have been either cellar or attic—­a stertorous, monotonous, regular snoring, a dull, prolonged rumbling, varied by tremors like those of a boiler under pressure of steam.  Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.

As they had decided on starting at eight o’clock the next morning, every one was in the kitchen at that hour; but the coach, its roof covered with snow, stood by itself in the middle of the yard, without either horses or driver.  They sought the latter in the stables, coach-houses and barns —­but in vain.  So the men of the party resolved to scour the country for him, and sallied forth.  They found them selves in the square, with the church at the farther side, and to right and left low-roofed houses where there were some Prussian soldiers.  The first soldier they saw was peeling potatoes.  The second, farther on, was washing out a barber’s shop.  An other, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying infant, and dandling it on his knees to quiet it; and the stout peasant women, whose men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by means of signs, telling their obedient conquerors what work they were to do:  chop wood, prepare soup, grind coffee; one of them even was doing the washing for his hostess, an infirm old grandmother.