"But where is Monsieur Chaubard?" said the widow. "Has he been taking a journey too? Why is he absent? Has anybody seen him to-day?"
"I have seen him to-day," said the youngest son, who had not spoken yet. This young man's name was Jean; he was little given to talking, but he had proved himself, on various domestic occasions, to be the quickest and most observant member of the family.
"Where did you see him?" asked the widow.
"I met him, this morning, on his way into Toulouse."
"He has not fallen ill, I hope? Did he look out of sorts when you met him?"
"He was in excellent health and spirits," said Jean. "I never saw him look better——"
"And I never saw him look worse," said the second of the neighbours, striking into the conversation with the aggressive fretfulness of a hungry man.
"What! this morning?" cried Jean, in astonishment.
"No; this afternoon," said the neighbour. "I saw him going into our church here. He was as white as our plates will be—when they come up. And what is almost as extraordinary, he passed without taking the slightest notice of me."
Jean relapsed into his customary silence. It was getting dark; the clouds had gathered while the company had been talking; and, at the first pause in the conversation, the rain, falling again in torrents, made itself drearily audible.