“What’s that to me?”

“But,” said Francois, “I should think that if old Rouget revoked his will,—­in case he has made one in favor of the Rabouilleuse—­”

Here Max cut short his henchman’s speech.  “I’ve stopped the mouths of people who have dared to meddle with you, my dear Francois,” he said; “and this is the way you pay your debts?  You use a contemptuous nickname in speaking of a woman to whom I am known to be attached.”

Max had never before said as much as this about his relations with the person to whom Francois had just applied a name under which she was known at Issoudun.  The late prisoner at Cabrera—­the major of the grenadiers of the Guard—­knew enough of what honor was to judge rightly as to the causes of the disesteem in which society held him.  He had therefore never allowed any one, no matter who, to speak to him on the subject of Mademoiselle Flore Brazier, the servant-mistress of Jean-Jacques Rouget, so energetically termed a “slut” by the respectable Madame Hochon.  Everybody knew it was too ticklish a subject with Max, ever to speak of it unless he began it; and hitherto he had never begun it.  To risk his anger or irritate him was altogether too dangerous; so that even his best friends had never joked him about the Rabouilleuse.  When they talked of his liaison with the girl before Major Potel and Captain Renard, with whom he lived on intimate terms, Potel would reply,—­

“If he is the natural brother of Jean-Jacques Rouget where else would you have him live?”

“Besides, after all,” added Captain Renard, “the girl is a worthless piece, and if Max does live with her where’s the harm?”

After this merited snub, Francois could not at once catch up the thread of his ideas; but he was still less able to do so when Max said to him, gently,—­

“Go on.”

“Faith, no!” cried Francois.

“You needn’t get angry, Max,” said young Goddet; “didn’t we agree to talk freely to each other at Mere Cognette’s?  Shouldn’t we all be mortal enemies if we remembered outside what is said, or thought, or done here?  All the town calls Flore Brazier the Rabouilleuse; and if Francois did happen to let the nickname slip out, is that a crime against the Order of Idleness?”

“No,” said Max, “but against our personal friendship.  However, I thought better of it; I recollected we were in session, and that was why I said, ‘Go on.’”

A deep silence followed.  The pause became so embarrassing for the whole company that Max broke it by exclaiming:—­

“I’ll go on for him,” [sensation] “—­for all of you,” [amazement] “—­and tell you what you are thinking” [profound sensation].  “You think that Flore, the Rabouilleuse, La Brazier, the housekeeper of Pere Rouget,—­for they call him so, that old bachelor, who can never have any children!—­you think, I say, that that woman supplies all my wants ever since I came back to Issoudun.  If I am able to throw three hundred francs a month to the dogs, and treat you to suppers,—­as I do to-night,—­and lend money to all of you, you think I get the gold out of Mademoiselle Flore Brazier’s purse?  Well, yes” [profound sensation].  “Yes, ten thousand times yes!  Yes, Mademoiselle Brazier is aiming straight for the old man’s property.”