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Updated: May 21, 2025
Fanchette, the cook, was the only person in Issoudun who thought it wrong that Flore Brazier should be queen over Jean-Jacques Rouget and his home. She protested against the immorality of the connection, and took a tone of injured virtue; the fact being that she was humiliated by having, at her age, a crab-girl for a mistress, a child who had been brought barefoot into the house.
I observed that Fanchette, whose harsh countenance looked more forbidding than usual, occupied a stool which she had set in a strange fashion against the Inner door; but I thought no more of this at the moment, my attention passing quickly to mademoiselle, who sat crouching before the fire, enveloped in a large outdoor cloak, as if she felt the cold.
So I must take a hand in it, and see if it can be done. You tell me where she lives and what her name is." "Alas! my dear mother, I don't dare," said Germain, "for you'll laugh at me." "No, I won't laugh at you, Germain, because you're in trouble, and I don't want to make it any worse for you. Can it be Fanchette?" "No, mother, not her." "Or Rosette?" "No."
Jean-Jacques's eyes lighted up, and for the first time in his life his dull face grew animated, showed feeling, and seemed to brighten under the rays of a thought. "Leave the room," he said to Fanchette, who was clearing the table.
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.
"Pah!" slurred Devereau. "Pah! I coulda done it myself." But Blair's quietness fooled him. "I'm not saying that it wasn't convincing." He thought it time to placate. "It was neat. I've gave you credit. Sure! You looked great. You looked like a world-beater, in there against Fanchette. But that's just what I'm trying to get at.
Maignan himself, the stoutest of the stout, looked grave, and had lost his swaggering air. Only three persons preserved their SANG-FROID entire. Of these, M. d'Agen rode as if he had heard nothing, and Simon Fleix as if he feared nothing; while Fanchette, gazing eagerly forward, saw, it was plain, only one object in the mist, and that was her Mistress's face.
And the autumn violets, her sister's gift, that were fastened to-day in profusion at her waist, marked in truth the re-awakening of buried things, of feminine instincts long repressed. For months, her maid Fanchette had dressed her, and she had worn obediently all the long crape gowns and veils dictated by the etiquette of French mourning.
The old doctor had made his son extremely unhappy, especially since he came of age, which happened in 1791; but he had given the little peasant-girl the material pleasures which are the ideal of happiness to country-folk. When Fanchette asked Flore, after the funeral, "Well, what is to become of you, now that monsieur is dead?"
Fanchette was one of these the dame of a student from Bretagne, a worldly, plotting, masculine woman the only one whom he permitted to visit her. It was Fanchette who loaned her money when she was indolent, and who prompted her to ask favors beyond his means. Toward the end of every month Ralph's money ran out, and then he was petulant and often upbraided her.
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