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.