Sunset came--and still neither Siadoux nor the priest appeared. The little party sat waiting round the table, and waited in vain. Before long, a message was sent up from the kitchen, representing that the supper must be eaten forthwith, or be spoilt; and the company began to debate the two alternatives, of waiting, or not waiting, any longer. "It is my belief," said the widow Mirailhe, "that my brother is not coming home to-night. When Monsieur Chaubard joins us, we had better sit down to supper." "Can any accident have happened to my father?" asked one of the two daughters, anxiously. "God forbid!" said the widow. "God forbid!" repeated the two neighbours, looking expectantly at the empty supper-table. "It has been a wretched day for travelling," said Louis, the eldest son. "It rained in torrents, all yesterday," added Thomas, the second son. "And your father's rheumatism makes him 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."