They then extended their circle of inquiries to the neighboring villages; but with no satisfaction.

They consulted the mayor.  His candidates failed.  Those of Dr. Barbesol were equally unlucky, in spite of the exactness of his scientific vouchers.

But one morning Francoise, on returning from one of her expeditions, said to her mistress: 

“You see, madame, that if you wish to give a prize to anyone, there is only Isidore in all the country round.”

Mme. Husson remained thoughtful.  She knew him well, this Isidore, the son of Virginie the greengrocer.  His proverbial virtue had been the delight of Gisors for several years, and served as an entertaining theme of conversation in the town, and of amusement to the young girls who loved to tease him.  He was past twenty-one, was tall, awkward, slow and timid; helped his mother in the business, and spent his days picking over fruit and vegetables, seated on a chair outside the door.

He had an abnormal dread of a petticoat and cast down his eyes whenever a female customer looked at him smilingly, and this well-known timidity made him the butt of all the wags in the country.

Bold words, coarse expressions, indecent allusions, brought the color to his cheeks so quickly that Dr. Barbesol had nicknamed him “the thermometer of modesty.”  Was he as innocent as he looked? ill-natured people asked themselves.  Was it the mere presentiment of unknown and shameful mysteries or else indignation at the relations ordained as the concomitant of love that so strongly affected the son of Virginie the greengrocer?  The urchins of the neighborhood as they ran past the shop would fling disgusting remarks at him just to see him cast down his eyes.  The girls amused themselves by walking up and down before him, cracking jokes that made him go into the store.  The boldest among them teased him to his face just to have a laugh, to amuse themselves, made appointments with him and proposed all sorts of things.

So Madame Husson had become thoughtful.

Certainly, Isidore was an exceptional case of notorious, unassailable virtue.  No one, among the most sceptical, most incredulous, would have been able, would have dared, to suspect Isidore of the slightest infraction of any law of morality.  He had never been seen in a cafe, never been seen at night on the street.  He went to bed at eight o’clock and rose at four.  He was a perfection, a pearl.

But Mme. Husson still hesitated.  The idea of substituting a boy for a girl, a “rosier” for a “rosiere,” troubled her, worried her a little, and she resolved to consult Abbe Malon.

The abbe responded: 

“What do you desire to reward, madame?  It is virtue, is it not, and nothing but virtue?  What does it matter to you, therefore, if it is masculine or feminine?  Virtue is eternal; it has neither sex nor country; it is ‘Virtue.’”

Thus encouraged, Mme. Husson went to see the mayor.