Fanchette, a big Berrichon countrywoman, who was considered a better cook than even La Cognette, ran in to receive the order with a celerity which said much for the doctor’s despotism, and something also for her own curiosity.

“What is an acre of vineyard worth in your parts?” asked the doctor, pouring out a glass of wine for Brazier.

“Three hundred francs in silver.”

“Well, then! leave your niece here as my servant; she shall have three hundred francs in wages, and, as you are her guardian, you can take them.”

“Every year?” exclaimed Brazier, with his eyes as wide as saucers.

“I leave that to your conscience,” said the doctor.  “She is an orphan; up to eighteen, she has no right to what she earns.”

“Twelve to eighteen—­that’s six acres of vineyard!” said the uncle.  “Ay, she’s a pretty one, gentle as a lamb, well made and active, and obedient as a kitten.  She were the light o’ my poor brother’s eyes—­”

“I will pay a year in advance,” observed the doctor.

“Bless me! say two years, and I’ll leave her with you, for she’ll be better off with you than with us; my wife beats her, she can’t abide her.  There’s none but I to stand up for her, and the little saint of a creature is as innocent as a new-born babe.”

When he heard the last part of this speech, the doctor, struck by the word “innocent,” made a sign to the uncle and took him out into the courtyard and from thence to the garden; leaving the Rabouilleuse at the table with Fanchette and Jean-Jacques, who immediately questioned her, and to whom she naively related her meeting with the doctor.

“There now, my little darling, good-by,” said Uncle Brazier, coming back and kissing Flore on the forehead; “you can well say I’ve made your happiness by leaving you with this kind and worthy father of the poor; you must obey him as you would me.  Be a good girl, and behave nicely, and do everything he tells you.”

“Get the room over mine ready,” said the doctor to Fanchette.  “Little Flore—­I am sure she is worthy of the name—­will sleep there in future.  To-morrow, we’ll send for a shoemaker and a dressmaker.  Put another plate on the table; she shall keep us company.”

That evening, all Issoudun could talk of nothing else than the sudden appearance of the little “rabouilleuse” in Doctor Rouget’s house.  In that region of satire the nickname stuck to Mademoiselle Brazier before, during, and after the period of her good fortune.

The doctor no doubt intended to do with Flore Brazier, in a small way, what Louis XV. did in a large one with Mademoiselle de Romans; but he was too late about it; Louis XV. was still young, whereas the doctor was in the flower of old age.  From twelve to fourteen, the charming little Rabouilleuse lived a life of unmixed happiness.  Always well-dressed, and often much better tricked out than the richest girls in Issoudun, she sported a gold watch and jewels, given by the doctor