He was once more the boyish Captain of the Army of Italy, at whom the huge grenadiers laughed and the gray-headed veterans marveled.
The Emperor's scouts had been hard at work during the day.

They were constantly coming and going at his headquarters at Champaubert with detailed accounts of the situation of the Russians and the Prussians.
The Emperor had a momentous decision to make.

From the position he had gained it was equally as easy for him to strike east as to strike west.
He decided at last to strike west, realizing that no captain, much less fiery old Bluecher, without an absolute forfeiture of his reputation as a soldier could afford to leave his van unsupported, but that the Prussian Field Marshal must advance to its support.

If the Emperor's plans worked out, he could destroy that van, and then turn back and mete out the same fate to the main body coming to its rescue.
Just about ten miles away to the westward, on the main road to Paris by way of La Ferte-sous-Jouarre, lay the village of Montmirail.

As many miles beyond Montmirail, on the same Paris road, Sacken, with twenty thousand men, had been advancing.