One Saturday evening, Courtecuisse, Bonnebault, Godain, Tonsard, his daughters, wife, and Pere Fourchon, also Vaudoyer and several mechanics were supping at the tavern. The moon was at half-full, the first snow had melted, and frost had just stiffened the ground so that a man’s step left no traces. They were eating a stew of hare caught in a trap; all were drinking and laughing. It was the day after the wedding of Catherine and Godain, and the wedded pair were to be conducted to their new home, which was not far from that of Courtecuisse; for when Rigou sold an acre of land it was sure to be isolated and close to the woods. Courtecuisse and Vaudoyer had brought their guns to accompany the bride. The neighborhood was otherwise fast asleep; not a light was to be seen; none but the wedding party were awake, but they made noise enough. In the midst of it the old Bonnebault woman entered, and every one looked at her. “I think she is going to lie-in,” she whispered in Tonsard’s ear. “_He_ has saddled his horse and is going for the doctor at Soulanges.” “Sit down,” said Tonsard, giving her his place at the table, and going himself to lie on a bench. Just then the gallop of a horse passing rapidly along the road was heard. Tonsard, Courtecuisse, and Vaudoyer went out hurriedly, and saw Michaud on his way to the village. “He knows what he’s about,” said Courtecuisse; “he came down by the terrace and he means to go by Blangy and the road,--it’s the safest way.” “Yes,” said Tonsard, “but he will bring the doctor back with him.” “He won’t find him,” said Courtecuisse, “the doctor has been sent for to Conches for the postmistress.” “Then he’ll go from Soulanges to Conches by the mail-road; that’s shortest.” “And safest too, for us,” said Courtecuisse, “there’s a fine moon, and there are no keepers on the roads as there are in the woods; one can hear much farther; and down there, by the pavilions, behind the hedges, just where they join the little wood, one can aim at a man from behind, like a rabbit, at five hundred feet.” “It will be half-past eleven before he comes past there,” said Tonsard, “it will take him half an hour to go to Soulanges and as much more to get back,--but look here! suppose Monsieur Gourdon were on the road?” “Don’t trouble about that,” said Courtecuisse, “I’ll stand ten minutes away from you to the right on the road towards Blangy, and Vaudoyer will be ten minutes away on your left towards Conches; if anything comes along, the mail, or the gendarmes, or whatever it is, we’ll fire a shot into the ground,--a muffled sound, you’ll know it.” “But suppose I miss him?” said Tonsard. “He’s right,” said Courtecuisse, “I’m the best shot; Vaudoyer, I’ll go with you; Bonnebault may watch in my place; he can give a cry; that’s easier heard and less suspicious.”