“Sir,” he said, “I feel that death is near, and I deserve to die. I am a very miserable wretch; I can only cast myself into the arms of religion. I, sir, _I_ have brought all these troubles on my sister and brother, for David Séchard has been a brother to me. I drew those bills that David could not meet! . . . I have ruined him. In my terrible misery, I forgot the crime. A millionaire put an end to the proceedings, and I quite believed that he had met the bills; but nothing of the kind has been done, it seems.” And Lucien told the tale of his sorrows. The story, as he told it in his feverish excitement, was worthy of the poet. He besought the curé to go to Angoulême 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 curé’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 Angoulême, is sure to be far from the truth. Old Séchard, our neighbor, left Marsac some days ago; very likely he is busy settling his son’s difficulties. I am going to Angoulême; I will come back and tell you whether you can return home; your confessions and repentance will help to plead your cause.” The curé 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 curé 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 curé-uncle, and at length the patient was persuaded to take nourishment. Meanwhile the curé, knowing the manners and customs of the countryside, had gone to Mansle; the coach from Ruffec to Angoulême 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 Angoulême, it was apparent to the meanest understanding that M. and Mme. Postel founded their hopes of future ease upon the old curé’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.