“Why, he must be in prison,” began the doctor; “his father would not help him—”
“In prison!” repeated Lucien, “and why?”
“Because some bills came from Paris; he had overlooked them, no doubt, for he does not pay much attention to his business, they say,” said Dr. Marron.
“Pray leave me with M. le Curé,” said the poet, with a visible change of countenance. The doctor and the miller and his wife went out of the room, and Lucien was left alone with the old priest.
“Sir,” he said, “I feel that death is near, and I deserve to die. I am a very miserable wretch; I can only cast myself into the arms of religion. I, sir, I have brought all these troubles on my sister and brother, for David Séchard has been a brother to me. I drew those bills that David could not meet! … I have ruined him. In my terrible misery, I forgot the crime. A millionaire put an end to the proceedings, and I quite believed that he had met the bills; but nothing of the kind has been done, it seems.” And Lucien told the tale of his sorrows. The story, as he told it in his feverish excitement, was worthy of the poet. He besought the curé to go to Angoulême and to ask for news of Eve and his mother, Mme. Chardon, and to let him know the truth, and whether it was still possible to repair the evil.
“I shall live till you come back, sir,” he added, as the hot tears fell. “If my mother, and sister, and David do not cast me off, I shall not die.”
Lucien’s remorse was terrible to see, the tears, the eloquence, the young white face with the heartbroken, despairing look, the tales of sorrow upon sorrow till human strength could no more endure, all these things aroused the curé’s pity and interest.
“In the provinces, as in Paris,” he said, “you must believe only half of all that you hear. Do not alarm yourself; a piece of hearsay, three leagues away from Angoulême, is sure to be far from the truth. Old Séchard, our neighbor, left Marsac some days ago; very likely he is busy settling his son’s difficulties. I am going to Angoulême; I will come back and tell you whether you can return home; your confessions and repentance will help to plead your cause.”
The curé did not know that Lucien had repented so many times during the last eighteen months, that penitence, however impassioned, had come to be a kind of drama with him, played to perfection, played so far in all good faith, but none the less a drama. To the curé succeeded the doctor. He saw that the patient was passing through a nervous crisis, and the danger was beginning to subside. The doctor-nephew spoke as comfortably as the curé-uncle, and at length the patient was persuaded to take nourishment.
Meanwhile the curé, knowing the manners and customs of the countryside, had gone to Mansle; the coach from Ruffec to Angoulême was due to pass about that time, and he found a vacant place in it. He would go to his grandnephew Postel in L’Houmeau (David’s former rival) and make inquiries of him. From the assiduity with which the little druggist assisted his venerable relative to alight from the abominable cage which did duty as a coach between Ruffec and Angoulême, it was apparent to the meanest understanding that M. and Mme. Postel founded their hopes of future ease upon the old curé’s will.
“Have you breakfasted? Will you take something? We did not in the least expect you! This is a pleasant surprise!” Out came questions innumerable in a breath.
Mme. Postel might have been born to be the wife of an apothecary in L’Houmeau. She was a common-looking woman, about the same height as little Postel himself, such good looks as she possessed being entirely due to youth and health. Her florid auburn hair grew very low upon her forehead. Her demeanor and language were in keeping with homely features, a round countenance, the red cheeks of a country damsel, and eyes that might almost be described as yellow. Everything about her said plainly enough that she had been married for expectations of money. After a year of married life, therefore, she ruled the house; and Postel, only too happy to have discovered the heiress, meekly submitted to his wife. Mme. Léonie Postel, née Marron, was nursing her first child, the darling of the old curé, the doctor, and Postel, a repulsive infant, with a strong likeness to both parents.
“Well, uncle,” said Léonie, “what has brought you to Angoulême, since you will not take anything, and no sooner come in than you talk of going?”
But when the venerable ecclesiastic brought out the names of David Séchard and Eve, little Postel grew very red, and Léonie, his wife, felt it incumbent upon her to give him a jealous glance—the glance that a wife never fails to give when she is perfectly sure of her husband, and gives a look into the past by way of a caution for the future.
“What have yonder folk done to you, uncle, that you should mix yourself up in their affairs?” inquired Léonie, with very perceptible tartness.
“They are in trouble, my girl,” said the curé, and he told the Postels about Lucien at the Courtois’ mill.
“Oh! so that is the way he came back from Paris, is it?” exclaimed Postel. “Yet he had some brains, poor fellow, and he was ambitious, too. He went out to look for wool, and comes home shorn. But what does he want here? His sister is frightfully poor; for all these geniuses, David and Lucien alike, know very little about business. There was some talk of him at the Tribunal, and, as judge, I was obliged to sign the warrant of execution. It was a painful duty. I do not
