The news immediately spread through Issoudun that one of the officers involved in the late conspiracy was quartered in the town, and the sensation was all the greater because it was understood that this officer was the brother of the painter who had been so unjustly arrested. Maxence Gilet, by this time quite recovered from his wound, had carried through the difficult business of calling in the moneys placed on mortgage by Père Rouget, and having them invested in the funds. The loan of a hundred and forty thousand francs, raised by the old man on his land, had produced a great sensation, for in the country everything is known. On behalf of the Bridaus, Monsieur Hochon, shocked at this necessity, questioned old Monsieur Héron, Rouget’s notary, as to the object of this change of investments.
“If Père Rouget changes his mind, his heirs will owe me a votive offering,” cried Monsieur Héron. “But for me, the old man would have invested the capital of fifty thousand francs a year in the name of Maxence Gilet. But I told Mademoiselle Brazier that she had better be satisfied with the will, or risk an action for undue influence, seeing the abundant proof of their manoeuvring afforded by the transfers made in every direction. To gain time I advised Maxence and his mistress to let people forget this sudden change in the old boy’s habits.”
“Ah! constitute yourself the ally and protector of the Bridaus, for they are penniless,” said Monsieur Hochon, who could not forgive Max for the terrors he had endured when fearing that his house would be pillaged.
Maxence Gilet and Flore Brazier, untouched by all misgiving, made light of the advent of old Rouget’s elder nephew. The moment Philippe should cause them any anxiety, they knew they could transfer the securities to either of themselves by making Rouget sign a power of attorney. If he should alter his will, fifty thousand francs a year was a very handsome plum of consolation, especially after burdening the real estate with a mortgage of a hundred and forty thousand francs.
The morning after his arrival Philippe called on his uncle at about ten o’clock; he was bent on exhibiting himself in his dreadful old clothes. And, indeed, when the discharged patient from the hospital, the prisoner from the Luxembourg, entered the sitting-room, Flore Brazier felt her heart chill at his repulsive appearance. Gilet, too, felt that shock to the mind and feelings by which Nature warns us of some latent hostility or looming danger. While Philippe had acquired an indescribably sinister expression of countenance from his late misfortunes, his dress certainly added to the effect. The wretched blue overcoat was buttoned in military style up to his chin, for melancholy reasons indeed, but it showed too plainly what it was meant to hide. The edge of his trousers, fringed like a pensioner’s coat, revealed abject squalor. His boots left damp blots of muddy water oozing from the gaping seams. The gray hat the Colonel held showed a hideously greasy lining. His walking-stick, a cane that had lost its varnish, had stood, no doubt, in all the corners of the cafés of Paris, and its battered ferrule must have dipped in many a mud-heap. From a stiff velvet collar that showed the paper lining, rose a head exactly like Frédérick Lemaître when made up for the last act of la Vie d’un Joueur; the breakdown of a still powerful man was visible in a coppery complexion that looked green in patches. Such complexions are to be seen in the faces of debauchees who have spent many nights at play; their eyes are surrounded by a dark, sooty ring, the eyelids vinous rather than red, the brow ominous from all the ruin it betrays. Philippe’s cheeks were furrowed and hollow, for he had scarcely recovered from his hospital treatment. His head was bald, a few locks left at the back ended by his ears. The pure blue of his glittering eyes had assumed a cold, steely hue.
“Good morning, uncle,” said he in a husky voice; “I am your nephew, Philippe Bridau. This is how the Bourbons treat a lieutenant-colonel, a veteran of the old army, a man who carried the Emperor’s orders at the battle of Montereau. I should be ashamed if my greatcoat were to fall open, on mademoiselle’s account. After all, it is the rule of the game! We chose to begin it again, and we were beaten.—I am residing in your town by orders of the police, on full pay and allowances of sixty francs a month. So the good people of Issoudun need not fear that I shall raise the price of victuals.—I see you are in good and fair company.”
“Oh! so you are my nephew …” said Jean-Jacques.
“But pray ask the Colonel to stay to breakfast,” said Flore.
“No, madame, thank you,” replied Philippe; “I have breakfasted. Besides, I would sooner cut my hand off than ask my uncle for a bit of bread or a single centime after what happened in this town to my brother and my mother. At the same time, I did not think it seemly that I should live in Issoudun without paying my respects to him now and then. But for the rest, you can do as you please,” said he, holding out his hand, in which Rouget placed his for Philippe to shake, “just as you please; I shall take no exception so long as the honor of the Bridaus is untouched.”
Gilet could watch the Lieutenant-Colonel at his leisure, for Philippe avoided looking in his direction in a very pointed way. Though the blood boiled in his veins, it was very important to Max that he should behave with that prudence of great diplomats which so often resembles cowardice, and not flare out like a young man; he sat calm and cold.
“It would not be seemly,” said Flore, “that you should live on sixty francs a
