“I am Doctor Rouget,” said the physician; “and, since you are the child’s guardian, bring her to my house, Place Saint-Jean; it will not be a bad day’s work for you or for her either.”
And without another word, feeling quite sure that he should see uncle Brazier in due course with the pretty Rabouilleuse, Doctor Rouget spurred his horse on the road to Issoudun. And, in fact, just as he was sitting down to dinner, his cook announced Citoyen and Citoyenne Brazier.
“Sit down,” said the doctor to the uncle and niece.
Flore and her guardian, both barefoot, looked round the doctor’s dining-room with eyes amazed; and this was why.
The house, inherited by Rouget from old Descoings, stands in the middle of one side of the Place Saint-Jean, a long and very narrow square planted with a few sickly-looking lime-trees. The houses here are better built than in any other part of the town, and Descoings’ is one of the best. This house, facing Monsieur Hochon’s, has three windows on the front towards the square, on the first floor, and below them a carriage gate into the courtyard, behind which the garden lies. Under the archway of this carriage gate is a door into a large room with two windows to the street. The kitchen is behind this room, but cut off by a staircase leading to the first floor and attics above. At an angle with the kitchen are a wood-house, a shed where the washing was done, stabling for two horses, and a coach-house; and above them are lofts for corn, hay, and oats, besides a room where the doctor’s manservant slept.
The room so much admired by the little peasant girl and her uncle was decorated with carved wood in the style executed under Louis XV, and painted gray, and a handsome marble chimneypiece, above which Flore could see herself in a large glass reaching to the ceiling, and set in a carved and gilt frame. On the panels, at intervals, hung a few pictures, the spoil of the Abbeys of Déols, of Issoudun, of Saint-Gildas, of la Prée, of Chézal-Benoît, of Saint-Sulpice, and of the convents of Bourges and Issoudun, which had formerly been enriched by the liberality of kings and of the faithful with precious gifts and the finest works of the Renaissance. Thus, among the pictures preserved by Descoings and inherited by Rouget, there was a Holy Family by Albano, a Saint Jerome by Domenichino, a Head of Christ by Gian Bellini, a Virgin by Leonardo da Vinci, Christ Bearing the Cross by Titian, from the Marchese di Belabre’s collection—he who stood a siege and had his head cut off under Louis XIII; a Lazarus by Veronese, a Marriage of the Virgin by the Priest of Genoa, two Church pictures by Rubens, and a copy from Perugino by Perugino himself, or by Raphael; finally, two Correggios and an Andrea del Sarto. The Descoings had chosen these from among three hundred, the spoils of churches, not in the least knowing their value, and selecting them solely for their better condition. Several had not merely magnificent frames, but were under glass. It was the beauty of the frames, and the value which the panes seemed to suggest, that had led to their choice.
Thus the furniture of the room was not devoid of the luxury so much prized in our days, though not at that time valued at Issoudun. The clock standing on the chimney-shelf between two superb silver chandeliers was distinguished by a solemn magnificence that betrayed the hand of Boule. The armchairs in carved wood, fitted with worsted-work done by devout ladies of rank, would be highly prized in these days, for they all bore coronets and coats of arms. Between the two windows stood a handsome console, brought from some château, and on it an enormous Chinese jar, in which the doctor kept his tobacco.
Neither Rouget, nor his son, nor the cook, nor the manservant, took the least care of these treasures. They spit into a fireplace of beautiful workmanship, and the gilt mouldings were variegated with verdigris. A pretty chandelier, partly of porcelain, was speckled, like the ceiling, with black spots, showing that the flies were at home there. The Descoings had hung the windows with brocade curtains, stripped from the bed of some Abbot. To the left of the door a cabinet worth some thousands of francs served as a sideboard.
“Now, Fanchette,” said the doctor to his cook, “bring two glasses, and fetch us something good.”
Fanchette, a sturdy country servant, who was regarded as superior even to la Cognette and the best cook in Issoudun, flew with an alacrity that testified to the doctor’s despotic rule, and also to some curiosity on her part.
“What is an acre of vine-land worth in your parts?” said the doctor, pouring out a glass of wine for Brazier.
“A hundred crowns in hard cash.”
“Well, leave your niece here as maidservant; she shall have a hundred crowns for wages, and you, as her guardian, shall take the money—”
“Every year?” said Brazier, opening his eyes as large as saucers.
“I leave the matter to your conscience,” replied the doctor. “She is an orphan. Till she is eighteen Flore will have none of the money.”
“She is going on for twelve,” said the uncle; “that makes it up to six acres of vine-land. But she is sweetly pretty, as mild as a lamb, very strong, very quick, very obedient. Poor creetur, she was the apple of his eye to my poor brother.”
“And I will pay a year in advance,” said the doctor.
“Lord A’mighty, make it two years, and us’ll consider it settled. She will be better off
