Père Rondin was overjoyed that he had induced the travellers to attend the wedding; he was even on the point of inviting the driver too, when the vehicle, which was moving at a snail’s pace, was overturned into a ditch, the only one by the road at that time, and the travellers rolled over one another. Luckily they got off with a few bruises, and the driver calmly busied himself with getting his horses on their feet, informing his passengers that he was sorry that he had not warned them, but that ever since he had been driving over that road he rarely failed to be upset there, because his horses had fallen into that habit.
That accident put the finishing touch to the travellers’ disgust with the wretched carriole.
“It ain’t only a day’s walk from here to our place,” said Père Rondin; “let’s foot it. We’ll get there a blamed sight quicker if we walk.”
The peasant’s suggestion was accepted. They left the carriole. Bertrand took one valise, Auguste absolutely insisting on taking the other, and they started.
It was a lovely country. They were delighted that they were travelling on foot. Père Rondin was familiar with the roads. They halted only once for refreshment, and the next morning they arrived at Monsieur Cadet Eustache’s farm.
They were not a hundred yards away when a tall youth rushed out and threw himself on Père Rondin’s neck, crying:
“Here’s uncle! come on, uncle! I’m only waiting for you to get married! and I tell you, I just long to be!”
“Good-day, Cadet. See, I’ve brought along a couple of good fellows, my boy; this gentleman who makes pictures and music, and Monsieur Bertrand, who drinks straight, I warn you.”
Monsieur Cadet Eustache bowed low to the two travellers, then said to his uncle:
“Haven’t you brought anybody else?”