However, good Jacques hurried with his dressing, so that he might go to the Luguets', to inquire after Jean-Louis. While doing so, he looked at his big silver watch, which hung on a nail by his bedside, and saw with astonishment that it was nine o'clock.
"This is something strange!" said he; "it is the first time in ten years I have slept so late."
He went to the door, but, as he put out his head, he was driven back by a whirlwind of snow which struck him in the face, and at the same time a man presented himself upon the threshold.
"M. Michou," said the new-comer, who was no other than the letter-carrier of the commune, "it is unfortunate you have some correspondent in this awful weather."
"That is true! You are not very lucky," replied the game-keeper; "for this is the first letter you have brought me in two years."
It was from Jean-Louis, and contained but a few words:
"M. Jacques: Do not be uneasy about me. I am in good health, but I will not return before three days, as I am going to Paris on important business.
"Your ever-faithful
"Jean-Louis."
"What the devil can that child have to do in Paris?" thought Michou. "Never mind, this letter is a great relief; I would rather know he was off there than here."
He gave the carrier a warm drink, and conversed with him some time before the hearth, upon which burned a good armful of vine-branches. Then, when he had taken his departure, the thought of Barbette suddenly entered his head.