Five years had gone by since the master's last visit.

Brossard and Henri were not likely to forget that time, for they had been awakened in the dead of night by a loud knocking at the side gate.

When they opened it the sight that greeted them made them rub their sleepy eyes to be sure that they saw aright.
There stood the master, old Martin Ciseaux.

His hair and fiercely bristling mustache had turned entirely white since they had last seen him.

In his arms he carried a child.
Brossard almost dropped his candle in his first surprise, and his wonder grew until he could hardly contain it, when the curly head raised itself from monsieur's shoulder, and the sleepy baby voice lisped something in a foreign tongue.
"By all the saints!" muttered Brossard, as he stood aside for his master to pass.
"It's my brother Jules's grandson," was the curt explanation that monsieur offered.