“What will happen between Max and Colonel Bridau at the Anniversary banquet tomorrow?”
To Védie, Philippe spoke a few words—“An annuity of six hundred francs—or dismissal!” which reduced her to neutrality for the time between two such formidable powers as Philippe and Flore.
Knowing Max’s life to be imperiled, Flore was sweeter to old Rouget than even in the early days of their housekeeping. Alas! in love affairs, interested fraud overrides sincerity, and that is why so many men pay clever beguilers so dear. La Rabouilleuse remained invisible next morning till breakfast time, when she came down, giving her arm to Père Rouget. The tears rose to her eyes as she saw in Max’s seat the terrible veteran with his gloomy blue eye and ominously calm face. “What ails you, mademoiselle?” said he, after wishing his uncle good morning.
“What ails her, nephew, is that she cannot bear the idea of your fighting Major Gilet—”
“I have not the slightest wish to kill your Gilet,” replied Philippe. “He has only to clear out of Issoudun and ship himself to America with a parcel of merchandise; I should be the first to advise you to give him some money to invest in the best class of goods, and to wish him good luck! He will make a fortune, and it would be more creditable than running riot through the town o’ nights—not to mention playing the devil in your house.”
“Well, that is very handsome, eh!” said Rouget, turning to Flore.
“To A‑me‑ri‑ca!” said she, sobbing.
“He would be better off kicking his heels in New York than tucked up in a deal box in France. But, of course, you may say he is a crack hand; he may kill me!” remarked the Colonel.
“Will you allow me to speak to him?” said Flore, in a quite humble and submissive tone, to Philippe.
“Certainly, and he may come and take away all his things. But I shall stay with my uncle meanwhile; for I do not intend to leave the old man any more,” replied Philippe.
“Védie,” called Flore, “run to the Poste, woman, and tell the Major that I beg him to—”
“To come and fetch away his things,” said Philippe, interrupting Flore.
“Yes, yes, Védie. That will be the best excuse for asking him to come; I want to speak to him.”
Fear so completely overpowered hatred in this woman, and her dismay at meeting a strong and ruthless will, when hitherto she had always met with adulation, was so great that she was beginning to give way before Philippe, as poor old Rouget had given way before her. She awaited with anxiety Védie’s return; but Védie came back with a positive refusal from Max, who begged Mademoiselle Brazier to send all his possessions to the Hôtel de la Poste.
“Will you let me take them to him?” she asked old Rouget.
“Yes—but you promise to come back?” said the old man.
“If mademoiselle is not here by midday, at one o’clock you will give me a power of attorney to transfer your securities,” said Philippe, looking at Flore. “Take Védie for the sake of appearances, mademoiselle. Henceforth we must guard my uncle’s honor.”
Flore could get nothing out of Maxence. The Major, in his disgust at having allowed himself to be ousted from his disgraceful position before the eyes of the whole town, was too proud to retreat before Philippe. La Rabouilleuse combated his arguments by proposing to her lover that they should fly together to America; but Gilet, who did not want Flore without Père Rouget’s fortune, while he would not let the woman see to the bottom of his heart, persisted in saying that he meant to kill Philippe.
“We have committed a stupid blunder,” said he. “We ought to have gone, all three of us, to spend the winter in Paris. But how could we imagine from looking at that gaunt carcass that things would turn out as they have done? Events have come with such a rush, that it has turned my brain. I took the Colonel for a swashbuckler without two ideas; that was my mistake. Since I was not sharp enough in the first instance to double like a hare, I should be a coward now if I yielded an inch to the Colonel; he has ruined me in the opinion of the town; only his death can rehabilitate me.”
“Go to America with forty thousand francs. I will find some way of getting rid of that savage; I will join you there; it will be much wiser …”
“What would people think of me?” he exclaimed, stung by the thought of the “jaw.” “No. Besides, I have already settled nine. That fellow can be no great duelist, it seems to me. He left school to go into the army; he was always in the wars till 1815, since that he has been traveling in America; so my bulldog can never have set foot in a fencing school, while I have no match at swordplay. The cavalry sword is his arm; I shall seem magnanimous by proposing it—for I shall try to make him insult me, and I will make short work of him. Decidedly that is the best thing to do. Be easy; we shall be masters again the day after tomorrow.”
Thus with Max a foolish point of honor outweighed rational policy. Flore was at home by one o’clock, and shut herself into her room to cry at her ease. All that day gossip wagged its tongue freely in Issoudun, for a duel between Maxence and Philippe was considered inevitable.
“Ah! Monsieur Hochon,” said Mignonnet, who met the old man on the Boulevard Baron, where the Captain was walking with Carpentier, “we are very anxious, for Gilet is equally strong with all weapons.”
“Never mind,” said the old provincial diplomat, “Philippe has managed the whole business very well—and I never should have believed that that long, free-and-easy rascal would have succeeded so quickly. Those two fellows rolled up to meet each
