A carriage drawn by four horses is a great event in a country town. The villagers, the farm hands, left their work, and the people from the farm drew near with curiosity to look at the travellers; but Sans-Souci’s joy had made itself heard already; he cracked his whip in such a way as to make the chickens fly a league, while the pigeons took refuge on the tallest chimneys. “It’s us, it’s him, it’s her!” he shouted, as soon as he caught sight of Louise and Guillot; “give us a big feast, my friends,--cabbage soup and the light white wine! death to the rabbits and chickens!” The villagers surrounded the carriage; Jacques, Adeline and Ermance were embraced, caressed, and made much of by everybody. Louise wept, Guillot swore aloud in his joy, and the old man was deeply moved by the sincere affection which they all manifested for his children; for that was what he called Jacques, Adeline and her daughter; and they escorted him in triumph to the farm, where everything was soon turned topsy-turvy to celebrate the return of those whom they had not expected to see again. Amid the joy, the confusion, and the preparations for the feast, Sans-Souci ran from one to another, tried to help everybody, broke plates, upset saucepans, and exclaimed at every instant: “You don’t know all; Jacques is rich now, and this excellent old man is his godfather; we saved his life; we killed the rascals! I will tell you all about it.” “I see,” said Guillot, “things seem to be going pretty well; but what about our friend Jacques’s brother?” “Hush!” said Sans-Souci, putting his finger to his lips; “if you have the misfortune to speak of him, gayety will disappear, tears will come back, and your supper will be for the great Turk; so take my advice, and turn your tongue over for an hour in your mouth, rather than say another stupid word on that subject.” “All right,” said Guillot, “I’ll chew my cud at the table before I speak.” Life at the farm delighted Monsieur Gerval; he drove all about the neighborhood, admiring the charming sites and the fertile fields which surrounded him. “Morgué, monsieur,” said Guillot, “if you knew how pretty it all is in summer! Bless my soul, you don’t see anything now! but if our fields are worth more, if our farm brings in more, we owe it all to our friend Jacques; in two years he did more and thought of more things than I could ever do in six; he’s worth three hands all by himself. It is a pity he’s rich now, for it robs me of a fine workman.” “My dear Jacques,” said the old man, “you must love this country, these fields, which have witnessed your labors, and it would be cruel in me to take you away from here. We will settle in this neighborhood, my friend, and I leave it to you to purchase some suitable estate here-about; arrange it to suit yourself; I am too old to attend to business matters, and I rely upon you to make a wise choice.”