The baldness of this sketch may displease some, who will think the flashes of Flore’s character belong to the sort of realism which a painter ought to leave in shadow.  Well! this scene, played again and again with shocking variations, is, in its coarse way and its horrible veracity, the type of such scenes played by women on whatever rung of the social ladder they are perched, when any interest, no matter what, draws them from their own line of obedience and induces them to grasp at power.  In their eyes, as in those of politicians, all means to an end are justifiable.  Between Flore Brazier and a duchess, between a duchess and the richest bourgeoise, between a bourgeoise and the most luxuriously kept mistress, there are no differences except those of the education they have received, and the surroundings in which they live.  The pouting of a fine lady is the same thing as the violence of a Rabouilleuse.  At all levels, bitter sayings, ironical jests, cold contempt, hypocritical complaints, false quarrels, win as much success as the low outbursts of this Madame Everard of Issoudun.

Max began to relate, with much humor, the tale of Fario and his barrow, which made the old man laugh.  Vedie and Kouski, who came to listen, exploded in the kitchen, and as to Flore, she laughed convulsively.  After breakfast, while Jean-Jacques read the newspapers (for they subscribed to the “Constitutionel” and the “Pandore"), Max carried Flore to his own quarters.

“Are you quite sure he has not made any other will since the one in which he left the property to you?”

“He hasn’t anything to write with,” she answered.

“He might have dictated it to some notary,” said Max; “we must look out for that.  Therefore it is well to be cordial to the Bridaus, and at the same time endeavor to turn those mortgages into money.  The notaries will be only too glad to make the transfers; it is grist to their mill.  The Funds are going up; we shall conquer Spain, and deliver Ferdinand VII. and the Cortez, and then they will be above par.  You and I could make a good thing out of it by putting the old fellow’s seven hundred and fifty thousand francs into the Funds at eighty-nine.  Only you must try to get it done in your name; it will be so much secured anyhow.”

“A capital idea!” said Flore.

“And as there will be an income of fifty thousand francs from eight hundred and ninety thousand, we must make him borrow one hundred and forty thousand francs for two years, to be paid back in two instalments.  In two years, we shall get one hundred thousand francs in Paris, and ninety thousand here, and risk nothing.”

“If it were not for you, my handsome Max, what would become of me now?” she said.

“Oh! to-morrow night at Mere Cognette’s, after I have seen the Parisians, I shall find a way to make the Hochons themselves get rid of them.”

“Ah! what a head you’ve got, my angel!  You are a love of a man.”