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 Angouleme. "He carries himself well for his age, all the same,"
remarked the druggist.

By this time David had been in hiding for eleven days in a house only
two doors away from the druggist's shop, which the worthy ecclesiastic
had just quitted to climb the steep path into Angouleme with the news of
Lucien's present condition.

When the Abbe Marron debouched upon the Place du Murier he found three
men, each one remarkable in his own way, and all of them bearing with
their whole weight upon the present and future of the hapless
voluntary prisoner. There stood old Sechard, the tall Cointet, and his
confederate, the puny limb of the law, three men representing three
phases of greed as widely different as the outward forms of the
speakers. The first had it in his mind to sell his own son; the
second, to betray his client; and the third, while bargaining for both
iniquities, was inwardly resolved to pay for neither. It was nearly five
o'clock. Passers-by on their way home to dinner stopped a moment to look
at the group.

"What the devil can old Sechard and the tall Cointet have to say to each
other?" asked the more curious.

"There was something on foot concerning that miserable wretch that
leaves his wife and child and mother-in-law to starve," suggested some.

"Talk of sending a boy to Paris to learn his trade!" said a provincial
oracle.

"M. le Cure, what brings you here, eh?" exclaimed old Sechard, catching
sight of the Abbe as soon as he appeared.

"I have come on account of your family," answered the old man.

"Here is another of my son's notions!" exclaimed old Sechard.

"It would not cost you much to make everybody happy all round," said
the priest, looking at the windows of the printing-house. Mme. Sechard's
beautiful face appeared at that moment between the curtains; she was
hushing her child's cries by tossing him in her arms and singing to him.

"Are you bringing news of my son?" asked old Sechard, "or what is more
to the purpose--money?"

"No," answered M. Marron, "I am bringing the sister news of her
brother."

"Of Lucien?" cried Petit-Claud.

"Yes. He walked all the way from Paris, poor young man. I found him at
the Cou