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Updated: September 6, 2025
At the end of three weeks he received other invitations for the remaining days, so that he had little more than his breakfast to provide. He never spoke of his uncle, nor of the Rabouilleuse, nor of Gilet, unless it were in connection with his mother and his brother's stay in Issoudun.
"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?"
The little Rabouilleuse was so satisfied when she compared the life she led at the doctor's with that she would have led at her uncle Brazier's, that she yielded no doubt to the exactions of her master as if she had been an Eastern slave.
In 1802, therefore, nothing was likely to reproach Flore Brazier, unless it might be her conscience; and conscience was sure to be weaker than self-interest in the ward of Uncle Brazier. If, as everybody chose to suppose, the cynical doctor was compelled by his age to respect a child of fifteen, the Rabouilleuse was none the less considered very "wide awake," a term much used in that region.
"Confound the old wretch! he is able enough to get over it without bothering others. If he coughs up his soul, it will only be after " Such were the amenities the Rabouilleuse addressed to Rouget when she was angry. The poor man sat down in deep distress at a corner of the table in the middle of the room, and looked at his old furniture and the old pictures with a disconsolate air.
But the Parisians were not clever enough; that lawyer can't crow over us Berrichons!" "How abominable!" "That's Paris for you!" "The Rabouilleuse knew they came to attack her, and she defended herself." "She did gloriously right!" To the townspeople at large the Bridaus were Parisians and foreigners; they preferred Max and Flore.
"A bad conscience shakes the hand," remarked Mignonnet sententiously. "In a few days from now," resumed Philippe, "you and the Rabouilleuse will be living together as sweet as honey, that is, after she gets through mourning. At first she'll twist like a worm, and yelp, and weep; but never mind, let the water run!"
At eleven o'clock that night, the two Parisians, ensconced in a wicker cabriolet drawn by one horse and ridden by a postilion, quitted Issoudun. Adolphine and Madame Hochon parted from them with tears in their eyes; they alone regretted Joseph and Agathe. "They are gone!" said Francois Hochon, going, with the Rabouilleuse, into Max's bedroom.
The exhausted old man and the Rabouilleuse were now plunged by their nephew into the excessive dissipations of the dangerous and restless society of actresses, journalists, artists, and the equivocal women among whom Philippe had already wasted his youth; where old Rouget found excitements that soon after killed him.
This opinion was confirmed to some extent by the obstinate resolution of the doctor to leave nothing to the Rabouilleuse, saying with a bitter smile, when the notary again urged the subject upon him, "Her beauty will make her rich enough!" Jean-Jacques Rouget did not mourn his father, though Flore Brazier did.
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