It was pitch dark when we reached Mocquet’s house. We had a savoury omelette and stewed rabbit for supper, and then Mocquet made my bed ready for me. He kept his word to my mother, for I had a good mattress, two white sheets and two good warm coverlids.
“Now,” said Mocquet, “tuck yourself in there, and go to sleep; we may probably have to be off at four o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“At any hour you like, Mocquet.”
“Yes, I know, you are a capital riser over night, and tomorrow morning I shall have to throw a jug of cold water over you to make you get up.”
“You are welcome to do that, Mocquet, if you have to call me twice.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
“Are you in a hurry to go to sleep, Mocquet?”
“Why, whatever do you want me to do at this hour of the night?”
“I thought, perhaps, Mocquet, you would tell me one of those stories that I used to find so amusing when I was a child.”
“And who is going to get up for me at two o’clock tomorrow, if I sit telling you tales till midnight? Our good priest, perhaps?”
“You are right, Mocquet.”
“It’s fortunate you think so!”