“That is right, Postel,” said the priest; he bestowed a kiss on the infant slumbering in Léonie’s arms, and, adjusting his cocked hat, prepared to walk out of the shop.
“You will dine with us, uncle, of course,” said Mme. Postel; “if once you meddle in these people’s affairs, it will be some time before you have done. My husband will drive you back again in his little pony-cart.”
Husband and wife stood watching their valued, aged relative on his way into Angoulême. “He carries himself well for his age, all the same,” remarked the druggist.
By this time David had been in hiding for eleven days in a house only two doors away from the druggist’s shop, which the worthy ecclesiastic had just quitted to climb the steep path into Angoulême with the news of Lucien’s present condition.
When the Abbé Marron debouched upon the Place du Mûrier he found three men, each one remarkable in his own way, and all of them bearing with their whole weight upon the present and future of the hapless voluntary prisoner. There stood old Séchard, the tall Cointet, and his confederate, the puny limb of the law, three men representing three phases of greed as widely different as the outward forms of the speakers. The first had it in his mind to sell his own son; the second, to betray his client; and the third, while bargaining for both iniquities, was inwardly resolved to pay for neither. It was nearly five o’clock. Passersby on their way home to dinner stopped a moment to look at the group.
“What the devil can old Séchard and the tall Cointet have to say to each other?” asked the more curious.
“There was something on foot concerning that miserable wretch that leaves his wife and child and mother-in-law to starve,” suggested some.
“Talk of sending a boy to Paris to learn his trade!” said a provincial oracle.
“M. le Curé, what brings you here, eh?” exclaimed old Séchard, catching sight of the Abbé as soon as he appeared.
“I have come on account of your family,” answered the old man.
“Here is another of my son’s notions!” exclaimed old Séchard.
“It would not cost you much to make everybody happy all round,” said the priest, looking at the windows of the printing-house. Mme. Séchard’s beautiful face appeared at that moment between the curtains; she was hushing her child’s cries by tossing him in her arms and singing to him.
“Are you bringing news of my son?” asked old Séchard, “or what is more to the purpose—money?”
“No,” answered M. Marron, “I am bringing the sister news of her brother.”
“Of Lucien?” cried Petit-Claud.
“Yes. He walked all the way from Paris, poor young man. I found him at the Courtois’ house; he was worn out with misery and fatigue. Oh! he is very much to be pitied.”
Petit-Claud took the tall Cointet by the arm, saying aloud, “If we are going to dine with Mme. de Senonches, it is time to dress.” When they had come away a few paces, he added, for his companion’s benefit, “Catch the cub, and you will soon have the dam; we have David now—”
“I have found you a wife, find me a partner,” said the tall Cointet with a treacherous smile.
“Lucien is an old schoolfellow of mine; we used to be chums. I shall be sure to hear something from him in a week’s time. Have the banns put up, and I will engage to put David in prison. When he is on the jailer’s register I shall have done my part.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the tall Cointet under his breath, “we might have the patent taken out in our name; that would be the thing!”
A shiver ran through the meagre little attorney when he heard those words.
Meanwhile Eve beheld her father-in-law enter with the Abbé Marron, who had let fall a word which unfolded the whole tragedy.
“Here is our curé, Mme. Séchard,” the old man said, addressing his daughter-in-law, “and pretty tales about your brother he has to tell us, no doubt!”
“Oh!” cried poor Eve, cut to the heart; “what can have happened now?”
The cry told so unmistakably of many sorrows, of great dread on so many grounds, that the Abbé Marron made haste to say, “Reassure yourself, madame; he is living.”
Eve turned to the vinegrower.
“Father,” she said, “perhaps you will be good enough to go to my mother; she must hear all that this gentleman has to tell us of Lucien.”
The old man went in search of Mme. Chardon, and addressed her in this wise:
“Go and have it out with the Abbé Marron; he is a good sort, priest though he is. Dinner will be late, no doubt. I shall come back again in an hour,” and the old man went out. Insensible as he was to everything but the clink of money and the glitter of gold, he left Mme. Chardon without caring to notice the effect of the shock that he had given her.
Mme. Chardon had changed so greatly during the last eighteen months, that in that short time she no longer looked like the same woman. The troubles hanging over both of her children, her abortive hopes for Lucien, the unexpected deterioration in one in whose powers and honesty she had for so long believed—all these things had told heavily upon her. Mme. Chardon was not only noble by birth, she was noble by nature; she idolized her children; consequently, during the last six months she had suffered as never before since her widowhood. Lucien might have borne the name of Lucien de Rubempré by royal letters patent; he might have founded the family anew, revived the title, and borne the arms; he might have made a great name—he had thrown the chance away; nay, he had fallen into the mire!
For Mme. Chardon the mother
