Loiseau, under pretence of stretching his legs, went out to see if he could sell wine to the country dealers.  The count and the manufacturer began to talk politics.  They forecast the future of France.  One believed in the Orleans dynasty, the other in an unknown savior—­a hero who should rise up in the last extremity:  a Du Guesclin, perhaps a Joan of Arc? or another Napoleon the First?  Ah! if only the Prince Imperial were not so young!  Cornudet, listening to them, smiled like a man who holds the keys of destiny in his hands.  His pipe perfumed the whole kitchen.

As the clock struck ten, Monsieur Follenvie appeared.  He was immediately surrounded and questioned, but could only repeat, three or four times in succession, and without variation, the words: 

“The officer said to me, just like this:  ’Monsieur Follenvie, you will forbid them to harness up the coach for those travellers to-morrow.  They are not to start without an order from me.  You hear?  That is sufficient.’”

Then they asked to see the officer.  The count sent him his card, on which Monsieur Carre-Lamadon also inscribed his name and titles.  The Prussian sent word that the two men would be admitted to see him after his luncheon—­that is to say, about one o’clock.

The ladies reappeared, and they all ate a little, in spite of their anxiety.  Boule de Suif appeared ill and very much worried.

They were finishing their coffee when the orderly came to fetch the gentlemen.

Loiseau joined the other two; but when they tried to get Cornudet to accompany them, by way of adding greater solemnity to the occasion, he declared proudly that he would never have anything to do with the Germans, and, resuming his seat in the chimney corner, he called for another jug of beer.

The three men went upstairs, and were ushered into the best room in the inn, where the officer received them lolling at his ease in an armchair, his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a long porcelain pipe, and enveloped in a gorgeous dressing-gown, doubtless stolen from the deserted dwelling of some citizen destitute of taste in dress.  He neither rose, greeted them, nor even glanced in their direction.  He afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing which seems natural to the victorious soldier.

After the lapse of a few moments he said in his halting French: 

“What do you want?”

“We wish to start on our journey,” said the count.

“No.”

“May I ask the reason of your refusal?”

“Because I don’t choose.”

“I would respectfully call your attention, monsieur, to the fact that your general in command gave us a permit to proceed to Dieppe; and I do not think we have done anything to deserve this harshness at your hands.”

“I don’t choose—­that’s all.  You may go.”

They bowed, and retired.