Courtois departed. The miller’s wife tried to make Lucien take food; like all country-bred folk, she was full of the idea that sick folk must be made to eat. He took no notice of her, but gave way to a violent storm of remorseful grief, a kind of mental process of counter-irritation, which relieved him. The Courtois’ mill lies a league away from Marsac, the town of the district, and the half-way halt between Mansle and Angoulême; so it was not long before the good miller came back with the doctor and the curé. Both functionaries had heard rumors coupling Lucien’s name with the name of Mme. de Bargeton; and now when the whole department was talking of the lady’s marriage to the new Prefect and her return to Angoulême as the Comtesse du Châtelet, both curé and doctor were consumed with a violent curiosity to know why M. de Bargeton’s widow had not married the young poet with whom she had left Angoulême. And when they heard, furthermore, that Lucien was at the mill, they were eager to know whether the poet had come to the rescue of his brother-in-law. Curiosity and humanity alike prompted them to go at once to the dying man. Two hours after Courtois set out, Lucien heard the rattle of old iron over the stony causeway, the country doctor’s ramshackle chaise came up to the door, and out stepped MM. Marron, for the curé was the doctor’s uncle. Lucien’s bedside visitors were as intimate with David’s father as country neighbors usually are in a small vine-growing township. The doctor looked at the dying man, felt his pulse, and examined his tongue; then he looked at the miller’s wife, and smiled reassuringly. “Mme. Courtois,” said he, “if, as I do not doubt, you have a bottle of good wine somewhere in the cellar, and a fat eel in your fish-pond, put them before your patient, it is only exhaustion; there is nothing the matter with him. Our great man will be on his feet again directly.” “Ah! monsieur,” said Lucien, “it is not the body, it is the mind that ails. These good people have told me tidings that nearly killed me; I have just heard the bad news of my sister, Mme. Séchard. Mme. Courtois says that your daughter is married to Postel, monsieur, so you must know something of David Séchard’s affairs; oh, for heaven’s sake, monsieur, tell me what you know!” “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.