Jean-Jacques Rouget did not mourn his father, though Flore Brazier
did. The old doctor had made his son extremely unhappy, especially
since he came of age, which happened in 1791; but he had given the
little peasant-girl the material pleasures which are the ideal of
happiness to country-folk. When Fanchette asked Flore, after the
funeral, "Well, what is to become of you, now that monsieur is dead?"
Jean-Jacques's eyes lighted up, and for the first time in his life his
dull face grew animated, showed feeling, and seemed to brighten under
the rays of a thought.
"Leave the room," he said to Fanchette, who was clearing the table.
At seventeen, Flore retained that delicacy of feature and form, that
distinction of beauty which attracted the doctor, and which women of
the world know how to preserve, though it fades among the
peasant-girls like the flowers of the field. Nevertheless, the
tendency to embonpoint, which handsome countrywomen develop when they
no longer live a life of toil and hardship in the fields and in the
sunshine, was already noticeable about her. Her bust had developed.
The plump white shoulders were modelled on rich lines that
harmoniously blended with those of the throat, already showing a few
folds of flesh. But the outline of the face was still faultless, and
the chin delicate.
"Flore," said Jean-Jacques, in a trembling voice, "you feel at home in
this house?"
"Yes, Monsieur Jean."
As the heir was about to make his declaration, he felt his tongue
stiffen at the recollection of the dead man, just put away in his
grave, and a doubt seized him as to what lengths his father's
benevolence might have gone. Flore, who was quite unable even to
suspect his simplicity of mind, looked at her future master and waited
for a time, expecting Jean-Jacques to go on with what he was saying;
but she finally left him without knowing what to think of such
obstinate silence. Whatever teaching the Rabouilleuse may have
received from the doctor, it was many a long day before she finally
understood the character of Jean-Jacques, whose history we now present
in a few words.
At the death of his father, Jacques, then thirty-seven, was as timid
and submissive to paternal discipline as a child of twelve years old.
That timidity ought to explain his childhood, youth, and after-life to
those who are reluctant to admit the existence of such characters, or
such facts as this history relates,--though proofs of them are, alas,
common everywhere, even among princes; for Sophie Dawes was taken by
the last of the Condes under worse circumstances than the
Rabouilleuse. There are two species of timidity,--the timidity of the
mind, and the timidity of the nerves; a physical timidity, and a moral
timidity. The one is independent of the other. The body may fear and
tremble, while the mind is calm and courageous, or vice versa. This is
the key to many moral eccentricities. When the two are united in one
man, that man will be a cipher all his life; such double-sided
timidity makes him what we call "an imbecile." Often fine suppressed
qualities are hidden within that imbecile. To this double infirmity we
may, perhaps, owe the lives of certain monks who lived in ecstasy; for
this unfortunate moral and physical disposition is produced quite as
much by the perfection of the soul and of the organs, as by defects
which are still unstudied.
The timidity of Jean-Jacques came from a certain torpor of his
faculties, which a great teacher or a great surgeon, like Despleins,
would have roused. In him, as in the cretins, the sense of love had
inherited a strength and vigor which were lacking to his mental
qualities, though he had mind enough to guide him in ordinary affairs.
The violence of passion, stripped of the ideal in which most young men
expend it, only increased his timidity. He had never brought himself
to court, as the saying is, any woman in Issoudun. Certainly no young
girl or matron would make advances to a young man of mean stature,
awkward and shame-faced in attitude; whose vulgar face, with its
flattened features and pallid skin, making him look old before his
time, was rendered still more hideous by a pair of large and prominent
light-green eyes. The presence of a woman stultified the poor fellow,
who was driven by passion on the one hand as violently as the lack of
ideas, resulting from his education, held him back on the other.
Paralyzed between these opposing forces, he had not a word to say, and
feared to be spoken to, so much did he dread the obligation of
replying. Desire, which usually sets free the tongue, only petrified
his powers of speech. Thus it happened that Jean-Jacques Rouget was
solitary and sought solitude because there alone he was at his ease.
The doctor had seen, too late for remedy, the havoc wrought in his
son's life by a temperament and a character of this kind. He would
have been glad to get him married; but to do that, he must deliver him
over to an influence that was certain to become tyrannical, and the
doctor hesitated. Was it not practically giving the whole management
of the property into the hands of a stranger, some unknown girl? The
doctor knew how difficult it was to gain true indications of the moral
character of a woman from any study of a young girl. So, while he
continued to search for a daughter-in-law whose sentiments and
education offered some guarantees for the future, he endeavored to
push his son into the ways of avarice; meaning to give the poor fool a
sort of instinct that might eventually take the place of intelligence.
He trained him, in the first place, to mechanical habits of life; and
instilled into him fixed ideas as to the investment of his revenues:
and he spared him the chief difficulties of the management of a
fortune, by leaving his estates all in good order, and leased for long
periods. Nevertheless, a fact which was destined to be of paramount
importance in the life of the poor creature escaped the notice of the
wily old doctor. Timidity is a good deal like dissimulation, and is
equally secretive. Jean-Jacques was passionately in love with the
Rabouilleuse. Nothing, of course, could be more natural. Flore was the
only woman who lived in the bachelor's presence, the only one he could
see at his ease; and at all hours he secretly contemplated her and
watched her. To him, she was the light of his paternal home; she gave
him, unknown to herself, the only pleasures that brightened his youth.
Far from being jealous of his father, he rejoiced in the education the
old man was giving to Flore: would it not make her all he wanted, a
woman easy to win, and to whom, therefore, he need pay no court? The
passion, observe, which is able to reflect, gives even to ninnies,
fools, and imbeciles a species of intelligence, especially in youth.
In the lowest human creature we find an animal instinct whose
persistency resembles thought.
The next day, Flore, who had been reflecting on her master's silence,
waited in expectation of some momentous communication; but although he
kept near her, and looked at her on the sly with passionate glances,
Jean-Jacques still found nothing to say. At last, when the dessert was
on the table, he recommenced the scene of the night before.
"You like your life here?" he said to Flore.
"Yes, Monsieur Jean."
"Well, stay here then."
"Thank you, Monsieur Jean."
This strange situation lasted three weeks. One night, when no sound
broke the stillness of the house, Flore, who chanced to wake up, heard
the regular breathing of human lungs outside her door, and was
frightened to discover Jean-Jacques, crouched like a dog on the
landing.
"He loves me," she thought; "but he will get the rheumatism if he
keeps up that sort of thing."
The next day Flore looked at her master with a certain expression.
This mute almost instinctive love had touched her; she no longer
thought the poor ninny so ugly, though his forehead was crowned with
pimples resembling ulcers, the signs of a vitiated blood.
"You don't want to go back and live in the fields, do you?" said
Jean-Jacques when they were alone.
"Why do you ask me that?" she said, looking at him.
"To know--" replied Rouget, turning the color of a boiled lobster.
"Do you wish to send me back?" she asked.
"No, mademoiselle."
"Well, what is it you want to know? You have some reason--"
"Yes, I want to know--"
"What?" said Flore.
"You won't tell me?" exclaimed Rouget.
"Yes I will, on my honor--"
"Ah! that's it," returned Rouget, with a frightened air. "Are you an
honest girl?"
"I'll take my oath--"
"Are you, truly?"
"Don't you hear me tell you so?"
"Come; are you the same as you were when your uncle brought you here
barefooted?"
"A fine question, faith!" cried Flore, blushing.
The heir lowered his head and did not raise it again. Flore, amazed at
such an encouraging sign from a man who had been overcome by a fear of
that nature, left the room.
Three days later, at the same hour (for both seemed to regard the
dessert as a field of battle), Flore spoke first, and said to her
master,--
"Have you anything against me?"
"No, mademoiselle," he answered, "No--" [a pause] "On the contrary."
"You seemed annoyed the other day to hear I was an honest girl."
"No, I only wished to know--" [a pause] "But you would not tell me--"
"On my word!" she said, "I will tell you the whole truth."
"The whole truth about--my father?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"Your father," she said, looking full into her master's eye, "was a
worthy man--he liked a joke--What of that?--there was nothing in it.
But, poor dear man, it wasn't the will that was wanting. The truth is,
he had some spite against you, I don't know what, and he meant--oh! he
meant you harm. Sometimes he made me laugh; but there! what of that?"
"Well, Flore," said the heir, taking her hand, "as my father was
nothing to you--"
"What did you suppose he was to me?" she cried, as if offended by some
unworthy suspicion.
"Well, but just listen--"
"He was my benefactor, that was all. Ah! he would have liked to make
me his wife, but--"
"But," said Rouget, taking the hand which Flore had snatched away from
him, "if he was nothing to you you can stay here with me, can't you?"
"If you wish it," she said, dropping her eyes.
"No, no! if you wish it, you!" exclaimed Rouget. "Yes, you shall be
--mistress here. All that is here shall be yours; you shall take care
of my property, it is almost yours now--for I love you; I have always
loved you since the day you came and stood there--there!--with bare
feet."
Flore made no answer. When the silence became embarrassing,
Jean-Jacques had recourse to a terrible argument.
"Come," he said, with visible warmth, "wouldn't it be better than
returning to the fields?"
"As you will, Monsieur Jean," she answered.
Nevertheless, in spite of her "as you will," Jean-Jacques got no
further. Men of his nature want certainty. The effort that they make
in avowing their love is so great, and costs them so much, that they
feel unable to go on with it. This accounts for their attachment to
the first woman who accepts them. We can only guess at circumstances
by results. Ten months after the death of his father, Jean-Jacques
changed completely; his leaden face cleared, and his whole countenance
breathed happiness. Flore exacted that he should take minute care of
his person, and her own vanity was gratified in seeing him
well-dressed; she always stood on the sill of the door, and watched
him starting for a walk, until she could see him no longer. The whole
town noticed these changes, which had made a new man of the bachelor.
"Have you heard the news?" people said to each other in Issoudun.
"What is it?"
"Jean-Jacques inherits everything from his father, even the
Rabouilleuse."
"Don't you suppose the old doctor was wicked enough to provide a ruler
for his son?"
"Rouget has got a treasure, that's certain," said everybody.
"She's a sly one! She is very handsome, and she will make him marry
her."
"What luck that girl has had, to be sure!"
"The luck that only comes to pretty girls."
"Ah, bah! do you believe that? look at my uncle Borniche-Herau. You
have heard of Mademoiselle Ganivet? she was as ugly as seven capital
sins, but for all that, she got three thousand francs a year out of
him."
"Yes, but that was in 1778."
"Still, Rouget is making a mistake. His father left him a good forty
thousand francs' income, and he ought to marry Mademoiselle Herau."
"The doctor tried to arrange it, but she would not consent;
Jean-Jacques is so stupid--"
"Stupid! why women are very happy with that style of man."
"Is your wife happy?"
Such was the sort of tattle that ran through Issoudun. If people,
following the use and wont of the provinces, began by laughing at this
quasi-marriage, they ended by praising Flore for devoting herself to
the poor fellow. We now see how it was that Flore Brazier obtained the
management of the Rouget household,--from father to son, as young
Goddet had said. It is desirable to sketch the history of that
management for the edification of old bachelors.
Fanchette, the cook, was the only person in Issoudun who thought it
wrong that Flore Brazier should be queen over Jean-Jacques Rouget and
his home. She protested against the immorality of the connection, and
took a tone of injured virtue; the fact being that she was humiliated
by having, at her age, a crab-girl for a mistress,--a child who had
been brought barefoot into the house. Fanchette owned three hundred
francs a year in the Funds, for the doctor made her invest her savings
in that way, and he had left her as much more in an annuity; she could
therefore live at her ease without the necessity of working, and she
quitted the house nine months after the funeral of her old master,
April 15, 1806. That date may indicate, to a perspicacious observer,
the epoch at which Flore Brazier ceased to be an honest girl.
The Rabouilleuse, clever enough to foresee Fanchette's probable
defection,--there is nothing like the exercise of power for teaching
policy,--was already resolved to do without a servant. For six months
she had studied, without seeming to do so, the culinary operations
that made Fanchette a cordon-bleu worthy of cooking for a doctor. In
the matter of choice living, doctors are on a par with bishops. The
doctor had brought Fanchette's talents to perfection. In the provinces
the lack of occupation and the monotony of existence turn all activity
of mind towards the kitchen. People do not dine as luxuriously in the
country as they do in Paris, but they dine better; the dishes are
meditated upon and studied. In rural regions we often find some Careme
in petticoats, some unrecognized genius able to serve a simple dish of
haricot-beans worthy of the nod with which Rossini welcomed a
perfectly-rendered measure.
When studying for his degree in Paris, the doctor had followed a
course of chemistry under Rouelle, and had gathered some ideas which
he afterwards put to use in the chemistry of cooking. His memory is
famous in Issoudun for certain improvements little known outside of
Berry. It was he who discovered that an omelette is far more delicate
when the whites and the yolks are not beaten together with the
violence which cooks usually put into the operation. He considered
that the whites should be beaten to a froth and the yolks gently added
by degrees; moreover a frying-pan should never be used, but a
"cagnard" of porcelain or earthenware. The "cagnard" is a species of
thick dish standing on four feet, so that when it is placed on the
stove the air circulates underneath and prevents the fire from
cracking it. In Touraine the "cagnard" is called a "cauquemarre."
Rabelais, I think, speaks of a "cauquemarre" for cooking cockatrice
eggs, thus proving the antiquity of the utensil. The doctor had also
found a way to prevent the tartness of browned butter; but his secret,
which unluckily he kept to his own kitchen, has been lost.
Flore, a born fryer and roaster, two qualities that can never be
acquired by observation nor yet by labor, soon surpassed Fanchette. In
making herself a cordon-bleu she was thinking of Jean-Jacques's
comfort; though she was, it must be owned, tolerably dainty.
Incapable, like all persons without education, of doing anything with
her brains, she spent her activity upon household matters. She rubbed
up the furniture till it shone, and kept everything about the house in
a state of cleanliness worthy of Holland. She managed the avalanches
of soiled linen and the floods of water that go by the name of "the
wash," which was done, according to provincial usage, three times a
year. She kept a housewifely eye to the linen, and mended it
carefully. Then, desirous of learning little by little the secret of
the family property, she acquired the very limited business knowledge
which Rouget possessed, and increased it by conversations with the
notary of the late doctor, Monsieur Heron. Thus instructed, she gave
excellent advice to her little Jean-Jacques. Sure of being always
mistress, she was as eager and solicitous about the old bachelor's
interests as if they had been her own. She was not obliged to guard
against the exactions of her uncle, for two months before the doctor's
death Brazier died of a fall as he was leaving a wine-shop, where,
since his rise in fortune, he spent most of his time. Flore had also
lost her father; thus she served her master with all the affection
which an orphan, thankful to make herself a home and a settlement in
life, would naturally feel.
This period of his life was paradise to poor Jean-Jacques, who now
acquired the gentle habits of an animal, trained into a sort of
monastic regularity. He slept late. Flore, who was up at daybreak
attending to her housekeeping, woke him so that he should find his
breakfast ready as soon as he had finished dressing. After breakfast,
about eleven o'clock, Jean-Jacques went to walk; talked with the
people he met, and came home at three in the afternoon to read the
papers,--those of the department, and a journal from Paris which he
received three days after publication, well greased by the thirty
hands through which it came, browned by the snuffy noses that had
pored over it, and soiled by the various tables on which it had lain.
The old bachelor thus got through the day until it was time for
dinner; over that meal he spent as much time as it was possible to
give to it. Flore told him the news of the town, repeating the cackle
that was current, which she had carefully picked up. Towards eight
o'clock the lights were put out. Going to bed early is a saving of
fire and candles very commonly practised in the provinces, which
contributes no doubt to the empty-mindedness of the inhabitants. Too
much sleep dulls and weakens the brain.
Such was the life of these two persons during a period of nine years,
the great events of which were a few journeys to Bourges, Vierzon,
Chateauroux, or somewhat further, if the notaries of those towns and
Monsieur Heron had no investments ready for acceptance. Rouget lent
his money at five per cent on a first mortgage, with release of the
wife's rights in case the owner was married. He never lent more than a
third of the value of the property, and required notes payable to his
order for an additional interest of two and a half per cent spread
over the whole duration of the loan. Such were the rules his father
had told him to follow. Usury, that clog upon the ambition of the
peasantry, is the destroyer of country regions. This levy of seven and
a half per cent seemed, therefore, so reasonable to the borrowers that
Jean-Jacques Rouget had his choice of investments; and the notaries of
the different towns, who got a fine commission for themselves from
clients for whom they obtained money on such good terms, gave due
notice to the old bachelor.
During these nine years Flore obtained in the long run, insensibly and
without aiming for it, an absolute control over her master. From the
first, she treated him very familiarly; then, without failing him in
proper respect, she so far surpassed him in superiority of mind and
force of character that he became in fact the servant of his servant.
Elderly child that he was, he met this mastery half-way by letting
Flore take such care of him that she treated him more as a mother
would a son; and he himself ended by clinging to her with the feeling
of a child dependent on a mother's protection. But there were other
ties between them not less tightly knotted. In the first place, Flore
kept the house and managed all its business. Jean-Jacques left
everything to the crab-girl so completely that life without her would
have seemed to him not only difficult, but impossible. In every way,
this woman had become the one need of his existence; she indulged all
his fancies, for she knew them well. He loved to see her bright face
always smiling at him,--the only face that had ever smiled upon him,
the only one to which he could look for a smile. This happiness, a
purely material happiness, expressed in the homely words which come
readiest to the tongue in a Berrichon household, and visible on the
fine countenance of the young woman, was like a reflection of his own
inward content. The state into which Jean-Jacques was thrown when
Flore's brightness was clouded over by some passing annoyance revealed
to the girl her power over him, and, to make sure of it, she sometimes
liked to use it. Using such power means, with women of her class,
abusing it. The Rabouilleuse, no doubt, made her master play some of
those scenes buried in the mysteries of private life, of which Otway
gives a specimen in the tragedy of "Venice Preserved," where the scene
between the senator and Aquilina is the realization of the
magnificently horrible. Flore felt so secure of her power that,
unfortunately for her, and for the bachelor himself, it did not occur
to her to make him marry her.
Towards the close of 1815, Flore, who was then twenty-seven, had
reached the perfect development of her beauty. Plump and fresh, and
white as a Norman countrywoman, she was the ideal of what our
ancestors used to call "a buxom housewife." Her beauty, always that of
a handsome barmaid, though higher in type and better kept, gave her a
likeness to Mademoiselle George in her palmy days, setting aside the
latter's imperial dignity. Flore had the dazzling white round arms,
the ample modelling, the satiny textures of the skin, the alluring
though less rigidly correct outlines of the great actress. Her
expression was one of sweetness and tenderness; but her glance
commanded less respect than that of the noblest Agrippina that ever
trod the French stage since the days of Racine: on the contrary, it
evoked a vulgar joy. In 1816 the Rabouilleuse saw Maxence Gilet, and
fell in love with him at first sight. Her heart was cleft by the
mythological arrow,--admirable description of an effect of nature
which the Greeks, unable to conceive the chivalric, ideal, and
melancholy love begotten of Christianity, could represent in no other
way. Flore was too handsome to be disdained, and Max accepted his
conquest.
Thus, at twenty-eight years of age, the Rabouilleuse felt for the
first time a true love, an idolatrous love, the love which includes
all ways of loving,--that of Gulnare and that of Medora. As soon as
the penniless officer found out the respective situations of Flore and
Jean-Jacques Rouget, he saw something more desirable than an
"amourette" in an intimacy with the Rabouilleuse. He asked nothing
better for his future prosperity than to take up his abode at the
Rouget's, recognizing perfectly the feeble nature of the old bachelor.
Flore's passion necessarily affected the life and household affairs of
her master. For a month the old man, now grown excessively timid, saw
the laughing and kindly face of his mistress change to something
terrible and gloomy and sullen. He was made to endure flashes of angry
temper purposely displayed, precisely like a married man whose wife is
meditating an infidelity. When, after some cruel rebuff, he nerved
himself to ask Flore the reason of the change, her eyes were so full
of hatred, and her voice so aggressive and contemptuous, that the poor
creature quailed under them.
"Good heavens!" she cried; "you have neither heart nor soul! Here's
sixteen years that I have spent my youth in this house, and I have
only just found out that you have got a stone there (striking her
breast). For two months you have seen before your eyes that brave
captain, a victim of the Bourbons, who was cut out for a general, and
is down in the depths of poverty, hunted into a hole of a place where
there's no way to make a penny of money! He's forced to sit on a stool
all day in the mayor's office to earn--what? Six hundred miserable
francs,--a fine thing, indeed! And here are you, with six hundred and
fifty-nine thousand well invested, and sixty thousand francs' income,
--thanks to me, who never spend more than three thousand a year,
everything included, even my own clothes, yes, everything!--and you
never think of offering him a home here, though there's the second
floor empty! You'd rather the rats and mice ran riot in it than put a
human being there,--and he a lad your father always allowed to be his
own son! Do you want to know what you are? I'll tell you,--a
fratricide! And I know why, too. You see I take an interest in him,
and that provokes you. Stupid as you seem, you have got more spite in
you than the spitefullest of men. Well, yes! I do take an interest in
him, and a keen one--"
"But, Flore--"
"'_But, Flore_', indeed! What's that got to do with it? You may go and
find another Flore (if you can!), for I hope this glass of wine may
poison me if I don't get away from your dungeon of a house. I haven't,
God be thanked! cost you one penny during the twelve years I've been
with you, and you have had the pleasure of my company into the
bargain. I could have earned my own living anywhere with the work that
I've done here,--washing, ironing, looking after the linen, going to
market, cooking, taking care of your interests before everything,
slaving myself to death from morning till night,--and this is my
reward!"
"But, Flore--"
"Oh, yes, '_Flore_'! find another Flore, if you can, at your time of
life, fifty-one years old, and getting feeble,--for the way your
health is failing is frightful, I know that! and besides, you are none
too amusing--"
"But, Flore--"
"Let me alone!"
She went out, slamming the door with a violence that echoed through
the house, and seemed to shake it to its foundations. Jean-Jacques
softly opened the door and went, still more softly, into the kitchen
where she was muttering to herself.
"But, Flore," said the poor sheep, "this is the first time I have
heard of this wish of yours; how do you know whether I will agree to
it or not?"
"In the first place," she said, "there ought to be a man in the house.
Everybody knows you have ten, fifteen, twenty thousand francs here; if
they came to rob you we should both be murdered. For my part, I don't
care to wake up some fine morning chopped in quarters, as happened to
that poor servant-girl who was silly enough to defend her master.
Well! if the robbers knew there was a man in the house as brave as
Caesar and who wasn't born yesterday,--for Max could swallow three
burglars as quick as a flash,--well, then I should sleep easy. People
may tell you a lot of stuff,--that I love him, that I adore him,--and
some say this and some say that! Do you know what you ought to say?
You ought to answer that you know it; that your father told you on his
deathbed to take care of his poor Max. That will stop people's
tongues; for every stone in Issoudun can tell you he paid Max's
schooling--and so! Here's nine years that I have eaten your bread--"
"Flore,--Flore!"
"--and many a one in this town has paid court to me, I can tell you!
Gold chains here, and watches there,--what don't they offer me? 'My
little Flore,' they say, 'why won't you leave that old fool of a
Rouget,'--for that's what they call you. 'I leave him!' I always
answer, 'a poor innocent like that? I think I see myself! what would
become of him? No, no, where the kid is tethered, let her browse--'"
"Yes, Flore; I've none but you in this world, and you make me happy.
If it will give you pleasure, my dear, well, we will have Maxence
Gilet here; he can eat with us--"
"Heavens! I should hope so!"
"There, there! don't get angry--"
"Enough for one is enough for two," she answered laughing. "I'll tell
you what you can do, my lamb, if you really mean to be kind; you must
go and walk up and down near the Mayor's office at four o'clock, and
manage to meet Monsieur Gilet and invite him to dinner. If he makes
excuses, tell him it will give me pleasure; he is too polite to
refuse. And after dinner, at dessert, if he tells you about his
misfortunes, and the hulks and so forth--for you can easily get him to
talk about all that--then you can make him the offer to come and live
here. If he makes any objection, never mind, I shall know how to
settle it."
Walking slowly along the boulevard Baron, the old celibate reflected,
as much as he had the mind to reflect, over this incident. If he were
to part from Flore (the mere thought confused him) where could he find
another woman? Should he marry? At his age he should be married for
his money, and a legitimate wife would use him far more cruelly than
Flore. Besides, the thought of being deprived of her tenderness, even
if it were a mere pretence, caused him horrible anguish. He was
therefore as polite to Captain Gilet as he knew how to be. The
invitation was given, as Flore had requested, before witnesses, to
guard the hero's honor from all suspicion.
A reconciliation took place between Flore and her master; but from
that day forth Jean-Jacques noticed many a trifle that betokened a
total change in his mistress's affections. For two or three weeks
Flore Brazier complained to the tradespeople in the markets, and to
the women with whom she gossiped, about Monsieur Rouget's tyranny,
--how he had taken it into his head to invite his self-styled natural
brother to live with him. No one, however, was taken in by this
comedy; and Flore was looked upon as a wonderfully clever and artful
creature. Old Rouget really found himself very comfortable after Max
became the master of his house; for he thus gained a companion who
paid him many attentions, without, however, showing any servility.
Gilet talked, discussed politics, and sometimes went to walk with
Rouget. After Max was fairly installed, Flore did not choose to do the
cooking; she said it spoiled her hands. At the request of the grand
master of the Order of the Knights of Idleness, Mere Cognette produced
one of her relatives, an old maid whose master, a curate, had lately
died without leaving her anything,--an excellent cook, withal,--who
declared she would devote herself for life or death to Max and Flore.
In the name of the two powers, Mere Cognette promised her an annuity
of three hundred francs a year at the end of ten years, if she served
them loyally, honestly, and discreetly. The Vedie, as she was called,
was noticeable for a face deeply pitted by the small-pox, and
correspondingly ugly.
After the new cook had entered upon her duties, the Rabouilleuse took
the title of Madame Brazier. She wore corsets; she had silk, or
handsome woollen and cotton dresses, according to the season,
expensive neckerchiefs, embroidered caps and collars, lace ruffles at
her throat, boots instead of shoes, and, altogether, adopted a
richness and elegance of apparel which renewed the youthfulness of her
appearance. She was like a rough diamond, that needed cutting and
mounting by a jeweller to bring out its full value. Her desire was to
do honor to Max. At the end of the first year, in 1817, she brought a
horse, styled English, from Bourges, for the poor cavalry captain, who
was weary of going afoot. Max had picked up in the purlieus of
Issoudun an old lancer of the Imperial Guard, a Pole named Kouski, now
very poor, who asked nothing better than to quarter himself in
Monsieur Rouget's house as the captain's servant. Max was Kouski's
idol, especially after the duel with the three royalists. So, from
1817, the household of the old bachelor was made up of five persons,
three of whom were masters, and the expenses advanced to about eight
thousand francs a year.