From the boys—­George and Leon—­I learned that old father Poupard had not yet put in his appearance since his departure three days before with his nag, and that mother Poupard had abandoned her belligerent attitude and had resorted to tears.  She could be seen three times a day, on her return from the fields, standing by the bridge corner, wailing her distress to any passerby who had time enough to stop and listen.  Poupard now possessed all the qualities of mankind and it was probably through his noble soft-heartedness that some ill had befallen him.  What a misfortune, especially as the vines needed so much attention.

Sunday, the ninth, I was preparing to go to early service at Charly (our own curate had been called to join his regiment) when on crossing the bridge, a bicycle whisked by the victoria.

“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.

And then followed a very touching family scene in which the delinquent was forgiven, and during which time one of the bystanders explained that father Poupard had walked from Chateau-Thierry to Epernay, to fetch his orphan grandchildren, and had returned on foot, carrying first one and then the other accomplishing the hundred miles in not quite four days!  A heroic undertaking for a man over seventy!

The sun rose and set several times ere my interior arrangements were completed and nothing extraordinary happened to break the monotony of my new routine.  On Tuesday, the eleventh, the strange buzzing of a motor told us that an aeroplane was not far distant.  Our chateau lies in the valley between two hills, so to obtain a clear view of the horizon, I hurried to the roof with a pair of field glasses.