David asked what the treasure might be.

“Marion!” said his father.

Marion, a big country girl, was an indispensable part of the establishment.  It was Marion who damped the paper and cut it to size; Marion did the cooking, washing, and marketing; Marion unloaded the paper carts, collected accounts, and cleaned the ink-balls; and if Marion had but known how to read, old Sechard would have put her to set up type into the bargain.

Old Sechard set out on foot for the country.  Delighted as he was with his sale of the business, he was not quite easy in his mind as to the payment.  To the throes of the vendor, the agony of uncertainty as to the completion of the purchase inevitably succeeds.  Passion of every sort is essentially Jesuitical.  Here was a man who thought that education was useless, forcing himself to believe in the influence of education.  He was mortgaging thirty thousand francs upon the ideas of honor and conduct which education should have developed in his son; David had received a good training, so David would sweat blood and water to fulfil his engagements; David’s knowledge would discover new resources; and David seemed to be full of fine feelings, so—­David would pay!  Many a parent does in this way, and thinks that he has acted a father’s part; old Sechard was quite of that opinion by the time that he had reached his vineyard at Marsac, a hamlet some four leagues out of Angouleme.  The previous owner had built a nice little house on the bit of property, and from year to year had added other bits of land to it, until in 1809 the old “bear” bought the whole, and went thither, exchanging the toil of the printing press for the labor of the winepress.  As he put it himself, “he had been in that line so long that he ought to know something about it.”

During the first twelvemonth of rural retirement, Sechard senior showed a careful countenance among his vine props; for he was always in his vineyard now, just as, in the old days, he had lived in his shop, day in, day out.  The prospect of thirty thousand francs was even more intoxicating than sweet wine; already in imagination he fingered the coin.  The less the claim to the money, the more eager he grew to pouch it.  Not seldom his anxieties sent him hurrying from Marsac to Angouleme; he would climb up the rocky staircases into the old city and walk into his son’s workshop to see how business went.  There stood the presses in their places; the one apprentice, in a paper cap, was cleaning the ink-balls; there was a creaking of a press over the printing of some trade circular, the old type was still unchanged, and in the dens at the end of the room he saw his son and the foreman reading books, which the “bear” took for proof-sheets.  Then he would join David at dinner and go back to Marsac, chewing the cud of uneasy reflection.