siness. We do not care enough about
making a profit; we have not the dogged objection to parting with our
money, even when it is legally owing, which is a kind of virtue of the
counting-house, for these two sorts of avarice are called prudence and
a faculty of business."

Eve felt overjoyed; she and her husband held the same views, and this
is one of the sweetest flowers of love; for two human beings who love
each other may not be of the same mind, nor take the same view of
their interests. She wrote to Petit-Claud telling him that they both
consented to the general scheme, and asked him to release David. Then
she begged the jailer to deliver the message.

Ten minutes later Petit-Claud entered the dismal place. "Go home,
madame," he said, addressing Eve, "we will follow you.--Well, my dear
friend" (turning to David), "so you allowed them to catch you! Why did
you come out? How came you to make such a mistake?"

"Eh! how could I do otherwise? Look at this letter that Lucien wrote."

David held out a sheet of paper. It was Cerizet's forged letter.

Petit-Claud read it, looked at it, fingered the paper as he talked,
and still taking, presently, as if through absence of mind, folded it
up and put it in his pocket. Then he linked his arm in David's, and
they went out together, the order for release having come during the
conversation.

It was like heaven to David to be at home again. He cried like a child
when he took little Lucien in his arms and looked round his room after
three weeks of imprisonment, and the disgrace, according to provincial
notions, of the last few hours. Kolb and Marion had come back. Marion
had heard in L'Houmeau that Lucien had been seen walking along on the
Paris road, somewhere beyond Marsac. Some country folk, coming in to
market, had noticed his fine clothes. Kolb, therefore, had set out on
horseback along the highroad, and heard at last at Mansle that Lucien
was traveling post in a caleche--M. Marron had recognized him as he
passed.

"What did I tell you?" said Petit-Claud. "That fellow is not a poet;
he is a romance in heaven knows how many chapters."

"Traveling post!" repeated Eve. "Where can he be going this time?"

"Now go to see the Cointets, they are expecting you," said
Petit-Claud, turning to David.

"Ah, monsieur!" cried the beautiful Eve, "pray do your best for our
interests; our whole future lies in your hands."

"If you prefer it, madame, the conference can be held here.