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. Léonie Postel, _née_ Marron, was nursing her first child, the darling of the old curé, the doctor, and Postel, a repulsive infant, with a strong likeness to both parents. “Well, uncle,” said Léonie, “what has brought you to Angoulême, since you will not take anything, and no sooner come in than you talk of going?” But when the venerable ecclesiastic brought out the names of David Séchard and Eve, little Postel grew very red, and Léonie, his wife, felt it incumbent upon her to give him a jealous glance--the glance that a wife never fails to give when she is perfectly sure of her husband, and gives a look into the past by way of a caution for the future. “What have yonder folk done to you, uncle, that you should mix yourself up in their affairs?” inquired Léonie, with very perceptible tartness. “They are in trouble, my girl,” said the curé, and he told the Postels about Lucien at the Courtois’ mill. “Oh! so that is the way he came back from Paris, is it?” exclaimed Postel. “Yet he had some brains, poor fellow, and he was ambitious, too. He went out to look for wool, and comes home shorn. But what does he want here? His sister is frightfully poor; for all these geniuses, David and Lucien alike, know very little about business. There was some talk of him at the Tribunal, and, as judge, I was obliged to sign the warrant of execution. It was a painful duty. I do not know whether the sister’s circumstances are such that Lucien can go to her; but in any case the little room that he used to occupy here is at liberty, and I shall be pleased to offer it to him.” “That is right, Postel,” said the priest; he bestowed a kiss on the infant slumbering in Léonie’s arms, and, adjusting his cocked hat, prepared to walk out of the shop. “You will dine with us, uncle, of course,” said Mme. Postel; “if once you meddle in these people’s affairs, it will be some time before you have done. My husband will drive you back again in his little pony-cart.” Husband and wife stood watching their valued, aged relative on his way into Angoulême. “He carries himself well for his age, all the same,” remarked the druggist.