"But where is Monsieur Chaubard?" said the widow. "Has he been taking
a journey too? Why is he absent? Has any body 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 neighbors,
striking into the conversation with the aggressive fretfulness of a
hungry man.

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

"No; this afternoon," said the neighbor "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 neighbor disputed with nobody from that moment,
and the melancholy neighbor 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