"He's coming--he's coming!" called the rider, as he passed us.

"Who?" I said, rising, as George drew up.

"Father Poupard!" called the boy. "I'm going to tell his wife!"

It was evident that the news had spread like wildfire, for looking up
the street, I could see the villagers hurrying from their cottages.
Already the hum of voices reached my ears, and anxious not to miss what
promised to be a most dramatic meeting, I told George to drive to one
side of the road and stop, and there we would await developments.

In less than a minute mother Poupard appeared. She was as good as her
word, for now that she knew her lord and master was no longer in danger,
she had cast sentiment to the winds and was actually brandishing that
"big stick!"

"Ah, the good-for-nothing old drunkard!" she vociferated as she ran.
"Just let me lay hands on him!"

Around the bend of the road came the excited peasants. They pressed so
closely about someone that until they were almost upon us I could not
distinguish who it might be. Then as mother Poupard pushed her way
through the crowd, it parted and displayed her husband; drunk, but with
pride; delirious, but with glory--proudly bearing his youngest grandson
in his arms, leading the other by the hand.

"Oh, Joseph--" gasped his astonished wife, every bit of anger gone from
her voice.