get in; we will find a duchy of
Courland for you in Paris, or failing the duchy, we shall certainly find
the duchess."

The Spanish priest laid a hand on Lucien's arm, and literally forced him
into the traveling carriage. The postilion shut the door.

"Now speak; I am listening," said the canon of Toledo, to Lucien's
bewilderment. "I am an old priest; you can tell me everything, there
is nothing to fear. So far we have only run through our patrimony or
squandered mamma's money. We have made a flitting from our creditors,
and we are honor personified down to the tips of our elegant little
boots. . . . Come, confess, boldly; it will be just as if you were
talking to yourself."

Lucien felt like that hero of an Eastern tale, the fisher who tried
to drown himself in mid-ocean, and sank down to find himself a king
of countries under the sea. The Spanish priest seemed so really
affectionate, that the poet hesitated no longer; between Angouleme
and Ruffec he told the story of his whole life, omitting none of his
misdeeds, and ended with the final catastrophe which he had brought
about. The tale only gained in poetic charm because this was the third
time he had told it in the past fortnight. Just as he made an end they
passed the house of the Rastignac family.

"Young Rastignac left that place for Paris," said Lucien; "he is
certainly not my equal, but he has had better luck."

The Spaniard started at the name. "Oh!" he said.

"Yes. That shy little place belongs to his father. As I was telling
you just now, he was the lover of Mme. de Nucingen, the famous banker's
wife. I drifted into poetry; he was cleverer, he took the practical
side."

The priest stopped the caleche; and was so far curious as to walk down
the little avenue that led to the house, showing more interest in the
place than Lucien expected from a Spanish ecclesiastic.

"Then, do you know the Rastignacs?" asked Lucien.

"I know every one in Paris," said the Spaniard, taking his place again
in the carriage. "And so for want of ten or twelve thousand francs, you
were about to take your life; you are a child, you know neither men nor
things. A man's future is worth the value that he chooses to set upon
it, and you value yours at twelve thousand francs! Well, I will
give more than that for you any time. As for your brother-in-law's
imprisonment, it is the merest trifle. If this dear M. Sechard has made
a discovery, he will be a rich man some day, and a rich