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Updated: May 11, 2025
But what on earth was father Poupard doing on the highroad at that hour? When he was within speaking distance I came out from the shadow of the wall and put the question. If he had suddenly been confronted with a spook I do not think the old man could have been more astonished. He stopped dead still, as though not knowing whether to turn about and run, or to advance and take the consequences.
There was a distinct emphasis on the word buy, which told me that mother Poupard, evidently accustomed to her husband's ways, had provided plentifully for his journey but had carefully emptied his pockets before he started. I went back to my preserves, but as the day wore on the lack of all communication with the outside world began to prey on me.
"He's merely fainted; more frightened than hurt," declared Madame Guix, who had literally pounced upon him. "Now then, ladies," she said, turning towards the women who stood gaping at us, "now then, here's a splendid opportunity to distinguish yourselves." And so little John Poupard was carried into the infirmary. As first patient you may be sure that be received every attention.
Two were there: "Monsieur Lorinet, retired solicitor, town councillor, of Bourbonnoux- les-Bourges, deputy-magistrate"; "Madame Lorinet, nee Poupard." I was surprised not to find a third card: "Berthe Lorinet, of no occupation, anxious to change her name." Berthe will be difficult to get rid of. I presume she didn't dare to leave a card on a young man, it wouldn't have been proper.
He was followed by his wife and daughter-in-law, two brawny peasant women, who were loudly lamenting the departure of their steed! "No, no!" literally howled mother Poupard. "This is the last straw! Both sons gone, and now our horse! Who's going to bring in our crop? The Lord is unjust." "And brother's babies poor motherless things in an orphan asylum at Epernay! How can we get to them now?
Here is a little money come for you from France; it has not been stolen, so it will have no spice for you! Racoleur! Here is a love-billet from some simpleton, with a knife as a souvenir; sharpen it on the Arbicos. Poupard, Loup-terrible, Jean Pagnote, Pince-Maille, Louis Magot, Jules Goupil here! There are your letters, your papers, your commissions. Biribi forgot nothing.
"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.
Two were there: "Monsieur Lorinet, retired solicitor, town councillor, of Bourbonnoux-les-Bourges, deputy-magistrate"; "Madame Lorinet, nee Poupard." I was surprised not to find a third card: "Berthe Lorinet, of no occupation, anxious to change her name." Berthe will be difficult to get rid of. I presume she didn't dare to leave a card on a young man, it wouldn't have been proper.
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.
George, who had also heard the noise, reached the scene of action before we did, and on our arrival we found him knee deep in the mud, preparing to hoist a little limp body on to the bank. Johnny Poupard! "Good heavens!" thought I. "Decidedly that family had no intention of letting the village rust for want of dramatic situations!"
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