en told the tale of his sorrows. The
story, as he told it in his feverish excitement, was worthy of the poet.
He besought the cure to go to Angouleme 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 cure'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 Angouleme, is sure to be far from the truth. Old
Sechard, our neighbor, left Marsac some days ago; very likely he is busy
settling his son's difficulties. I am going to Angouleme; I will come
back and tell you whether you can return home; your confessions and
repentance will help to plead your cause."

The cure 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 cure 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 cure-uncle, and at length the patient was persuaded to take
nourishment.

Meanwhile the cure, knowing the manners and customs of the countryside,
had gone to Mansle; the coach from Ruffec to Angouleme was due to pass
about that time, and he found a vacant place in it. He would go to
his grand-nephew 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 Angouleme, it was apparent to
the meanest understanding that M. and Mme. Postel founded their hopes of
future ease upon the old cure'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 b