The interminable journey, by day, by night, with tedious waits at great ghostly junctions, at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of Brantôme and immediately before him stood the familiar ramshackle omnibus of the Hôtel des Grottes. Old Grégoire, the driver, on beholding him staggered back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle. “_Monsieur Martin! C’est vous?_” Recovering, he advanced with great, sun-glazed hand. “Yes. It is indeed I,” laughed Martin. “It is everybody that will be content,” cried Grégoire. “How one has talked of you, and wished you were back. And now, that this _sacrée guerre_ is coming——” “That’s why I’ve come,” said Martin. “How are monsieur and mademoiselle?” Both were well. It was they who would be glad to see Monsieur Martin. The old fellow, red-faced, white-haired, clean shaven, with a comfortable gash of a mouth, clapped him on the shoulder. “_Mais v’là un solide gaillard?_” “_Tu trouves?_” Why, of course Grégoire found him transformed into a stout fellow. When he had arrived a year ago he was like a bit of wet string. What a thing it was to travel. And yet he had been in China where people ate rats and dogs, which could not be nourishing food. In a fortnight, on the good meat and _foie gras_ of Périgord, he would develop into a veritable giant. If Monsieur Martin would enter. . . . He held the door open. No one else had arrived by the train. The omnibus jolted and swayed along the familiar road, through the familiar cobble-paved streets, along the familiar quays, past many a familiar face. They all seemed to chant the welcome of which the old driver had struck the key. Martin felt strangely happy and the tears were very near his eyes. Monsieur Richard, the butcher, catching sight of him, darted a pace or two down the pavement so as to make sure, and threw up both hands in greeting. And as they turned the corner of the hill surmounted by the dear grey tower of the old Abbey, Monsieur le Curé saw him and smiled and swept a salute with his old dusty hat, which Martin acknowledged through the end window of the omnibus. They drew up before the familiar door of the old white inn. Baptiste was there, elderly, battered, in his green baize apron. “_Mais, mon Dieu, c’est vous?—mais—— _” He wrung Martin’s hand. And, as once before, on the return of Félise, not being able to cope with his emotions, he shouted on the threshold of the vestibule: “_Monsieur, monsieur, c’est Monsieur Martin qui arrive!_” “_Qu’est-ce que tu dis là?_” cried a familiar voice from the bureau. “_C’est Monsieur Martin._” Martin entered, and in the vestibule encountered Bigourdin. “_Mais mon vieux_,” cried the vast man. “_C’est toi? C’est vraiment toi, enfin?_”