From the capacious pocket of his capote he extracted a bottle of
brandy, adding, with his all-conquering air, that it was the gift of a
lady. (He had been seen the day before, seated at the table of a
tavern in Floing and holding the waitress on his lap, evidently on the
best of terms with her.) The soldiers laughed and winked at one
another, holding out their porringers, into which he gayly poured the
golden liquor.

"Drink to your sweethearts, my children, if you have any and don't
forget to drink to the glory of France. Them's my sentiments, so _vive
la joie_!"

"That's right, Lieutenant. Here's to your health, and everybody
else's!"

They all drank, and their hearts were warmed and peace reigned once
more. The "nip" had much of comfort in it, in the chill morning, just
as they were going into action, and Maurice felt it tingling in his
veins, giving him cheer and a sort of what is known colloquially as
"Dutch courage." Why should they not whip the Prussians? Have not
battles their surprises? has not history embalmed many an instance of
the fickleness of fortune? That mighty man of war, the lieutenant,
added that Bazaine was on the way to join them, would be with them
before the day was over: oh, the information was positive; he had it
from an aid to one of the generals; and although, in speaking of the
route the marshal was to come by, he pointed to the frontier of
Belgium, Maurice yielded to one of those spasmodic attacks of
hopefulness of his, without which life to him would not have been
worth living. Might it not be that the day of reckoning was at hand?