November was a true winter month, gray and gloomy, a mixture of snow and rain, frost and thaw.  The trial of Mother Tonsard had required witnesses at Auxerre, and Michaud had given his testimony.  Monsieur Rigou had interested himself for the old woman, and employed a lawyer on her behalf who relied in his defence on the absence of disinterested witnesses; but the testimony of Michaud and his assistants and the field-keeper was found to outweigh this objection.  Tonsard’s mother was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, and the lawyer said to her son:—­

“It was Michaud’s testimony which got her that.”

CHAPTER IX

THE CATASTROPHE

One Saturday evening, Courtecuisse, Bonnebault, Godain, Tonsard, his daughters, wife, and Pere Fourchon, also Vaudoyer and several mechanics were supping at the tavern.  The moon was at half-full, the first snow had melted, and frost had just stiffened the ground so that a man’s step left no traces.  They were eating a stew of hare caught in a trap; all were drinking and laughing.  It was the day after the wedding of Catherine and Godain, and the wedded pair were to be conducted to their new home, which was not far from that of Courtecuisse; for when Rigou sold an acre of land it was sure to be isolated and close to the woods.  Courtecuisse and Vaudoyer had brought their guns to accompany the bride.  The neighborhood was otherwise fast asleep; not a light was to be seen; none but the wedding party were awake, but they made noise enough.  In the midst of it the old Bonnebault woman entered, and every one looked at her.

“I think she is going to lie-in,” she whispered in Tonsard’s ear. “He has saddled his horse and is going for the doctor at Soulanges.”

“Sit down,” said Tonsard, giving her his place at the table, and going himself to lie on a bench.

Just then the gallop of a horse passing rapidly along the road was heard.  Tonsard, Courtecuisse, and Vaudoyer went out hurriedly, and saw Michaud on his way to the village.

“He knows what he’s about,” said Courtecuisse; “he came down by the terrace and he means to go by Blangy and the road,—­it’s the safest way.”

“Yes,” said Tonsard, “but he will bring the doctor back with him.”

“He won’t find him,” said Courtecuisse, “the doctor has been sent for to Conches for the postmistress.”

“Then he’ll go from Soulanges to Conches by the mail-road; that’s shortest.”

“And safest too, for us,” said Courtecuisse, “there’s a fine moon, and there are no keepers on the roads as there are in the woods; one can hear much farther; and down there, by the pavilions, behind the hedges, just where they join the little wood, one can aim at a man from behind, like a rabbit, at five hundred feet.”

“It will be half-past eleven before he comes past there,” said Tonsard, “it will take him half an hour to go to Soulanges and as much more to get back,—­but look here! suppose Monsieur Gourdon were on the road?”