averse to travelling in wet weather," suggested
the widow, thoughtfully.

"Very true!" said the first of the two neighbours,
shaking his head piteously at his passive
knife and fork.

Another message came up from the kitchen,
and peremptorily forbade the company to wait
any longer.

"But where is Monsieur Chaubard?" said the
widow. "Has he been taking a journey too?
Why is he absent? Has anybody seen him
to–day?"

"I have seen him to-day," said the youngest
son, who had not spoken yet. This young man's
name was Jean; he was little given to talking,
but he had proved himself, on various domestic
occasions, to be the quickest and most observant
member of the family.

"Where did you see him?" asked the widow.

"I met him, this morning, on his way into
Toulouse."

"He has not fallen ill, I hope? Did he look
out of sorts when you met him?"

"He was in excellent health and spirits," said
Jean. "I never saw him look better——"

"And I never saw him look worse," said the
second of the neighbours, striking into the
conversation with the aggressive fretfulness of a
hungry man.

"What! this morning?" cried Jean, in
astonishment.

"No; this afternoon," said the neighbour.
"I saw him going into our church here. He
was as white as our plates will be—when they
come up. And what is almost as extraordinary,
he passed without taking the slightest notice of
me."

Jean relapsed into his customary silence. It
was getting dark; the clouds had gathered
while the company had been talking; and, at
the first pause in the conversation, the rain,
falling again in torrents, made itself drearily
audible.

"Dear, dear me!" said the widow. "If it
was not raining so hard, we might send somebody
to inquire after good Monsieur Chaubard."

"I'll go and inquire," said Thomas Siadoux.
"It's not five minutes' walk. Have up the
supper; I'll take a cloak with me; and if our
excellent Monsieur Chaubard is out of his bed,
I'll bring him back, to answer for himself."

With those words he left the room. The
supper was put on the table forthwith. The
hungry neighbour disputed with nobody from
that moment, and the melancholy neighbour
recovered his spirits.

On reaching the priest's house, Thomas Siadoux
found him sitting alone in his study. He
started to his feet, with every appearance of the
most violent alarm, when the young man entered
the room.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Thomas; "I
am afraid I have startled you."

"What do you want?" asked Monsieur
Chaubard, in a singularly abrupt, bewildered
manner.

"Have you forgotten, sir, that this is the
night of our supper?" remonstrated Thomas.
"My father has not come back; and we can
only suppose——"

At those words the priest dropped into his
chair again, and trembled from head to foot.
Amazed to the last degree by this extraordinary
reception of his remonstrance, Thomas Siadoux
remembered, at the same time, that he had
engaged to bring Monsieur Chaubard back with
him; and he determined to finish his civil
speech, as if nothing had happened.

"We are all of opinion," he resumed, "that
the weather has kept my father on the road.
But that is no reason, sir, why the supper should
be wasted, or why you should not make one of
us, as you promised. Here is a good warm
cloak——"

"I can't come," said the priest. "I'm ill;
I'm in bad spirits; I'm not fit to go out." He
sighed bitterly, and hid his face in his hands.

"Don't say that, sir," persisted Thomas.
"If you are out of spirits, let us try to cheer
you. And you, in your turn, will enliven us.
They are all waiting for you at home. Don't
refuse, sir," pleaded the young man, "or we
shall think we have offended you, in some way.
You have always been a good friend to our
family——"

Monsieur Chaubard again rose from his chair,
with a second change of manner, as extraordinary
and as perplexing as the first. His eyes
moistened as if the tears were rising in them; he
took the hand of Thomas Siadoux, and pressed
it long and warmly in his own. There was a
curious mixed expression of pity and fear in the
look which he now fixed on the young man.

"Of all the days in the year," he said, very
earnestly, "don't doubt my friendship to-day.
Ill as I am, I will make one of the supper-party,
for your sake——"

"And for my father's sake?" added Thomas,
persuasively.

"Let us go to the supper," said the priest.

Thomas Siadoux wrapped the cloak round
him, and they left the house.

Every one at the table noticed the change in
Monsieur Chaubard. He accounted for it by
declaring, confusedly, that he was suffering from
nervous illness; and then added that he would
do his best, notwithstanding, to promote the
social enjoyments of the evening. His talk was
fragmentary, and his cheerfulness was sadly
forced; but he contrived, with these drawbacks,
to take his part in the conversation—except in
the case when it happened to turn on the absent
master of the house. Whenever the name of
Saturnin Siadoux was mentioned—either by the
neighbours, who politely regretted that he was
not present; or by the family, who naturally
talked about the resting-place which he might
have chosen for the night—Monsieur
Chaubard either relapsed into blank silence, or
abruptly changed the topic. Under these
circumstances, the company, by whom he was
respected and beloved, made the necessary
allowances for his state of health; the only person
among them, who showed no desire to cheer the