l
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 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. Leonie Postel, _nee_ Marron, was nursing her
first child, the darling of the old cure, the doctor, and Postel, a
repulsive infant, with a strong likeness to both parents.

"Well, uncle," said Leonie, "what has brought you to Angouleme, since
you will not take anything, and no sooner come in than you talk of
going?"

But when the venerable ecclesiastic