A shiver ran through the meagre little attorney when he heard those words. Meanwhile Eve beheld her father-in-law enter with the Abbé Marron, who had let fall a word which unfolded the whole tragedy. “Here is our curé, Mme. Séchard,” the old man said, addressing his daughter-in-law, “and pretty tales about your brother he has to tell us, no doubt!” “Oh!” cried poor Eve, cut to the heart; “what can have happened now?” The cry told so unmistakably of many sorrows, of great dread on so many grounds, that the Abbé Marron made haste to say, “Reassure yourself, madame; he is living.” Eve turned to the vinegrower. “Father,” she said, “perhaps you will be good enough to go to my mother; she must hear all that this gentleman has to tell us of Lucien.” The old man went in search of Mme. Chardon, and addressed her in this wise: “Go and have it out with the Abbé Marron; he is a good sort, priest though he is. Dinner will be late, no doubt. I shall come back again in an hour,” and the old man went out. Insensible as he was to everything but the clink of money and the glitter of gold, he left Mme. Chardon without caring to notice the effect of the shock that he had given her. Mme. Chardon had changed so greatly during the last eighteen months, that in that short time she no longer looked like the same woman. The troubles hanging over both of her children, her abortive hopes for Lucien, the unexpected deterioration in one in whose powers and honesty she had for so long believed,--all these things had told heavily upon her. Mme. Chardon was not only noble by birth, she was noble by nature; she idolized her children; consequently, during the last six months she had suffered as never before since her widowhood. Lucien might have borne the name of Lucien de Rubempré by royal letters patent; he might have founded the family anew, revived the title, and borne the arms; he might have made a great name--he had thrown the chance away; nay, he had fallen into the mire! For Mme. Chardon the mother was a harder judge than Eve the sister. When she heard of the bills, she looked upon Lucien as lost. A mother is often fain to shut her eyes, but she always knows the child that she held at her breast, the child that has been always with her in the house; and so when Eve and David discussed Lucien’s chances of success in Paris, and Lucien’s mother to all appearance shared Eve’s illusions, in her inmost heart there was a tremor of fear lest David should be right, for a mother’s consciousness bore a witness to the truth of his words. So well did she know Eve’s sensitive nature, that she could not bring herself to speak of her fears; she was obliged to choke them down and keep such silence as mothers alone can keep when they know how to love their children.