ss by leaving you with this kind and worthy father of the poor;
you must obey him as you would me. Be a good girl, and behave nicely,
and do everything he tells you."

"Get the room over mine ready," said the doctor to Fanchette. "Little
Flore--I am sure she is worthy of the name--will sleep there in future.
To-morrow, we'll send for a shoemaker and a dressmaker. Put another
plate on the table; she shall keep us company."

That evening, all Issoudun could talk of nothing else than the sudden
appearance of the little "rabouilleuse" in Doctor Rouget's house. In
that region of satire the nickname stuck to Mademoiselle Brazier before,
during, and after the period of her good fortune.

The doctor no doubt intended to do with Flore Brazier, in a small way,
what Louis XV. did in a large one with Mademoiselle de Romans; but he
was too late about it; Louis XV. was still young, whereas the doctor was
in the flower of old age. From twelve to fourteen, the charming little
Rabouilleuse lived a life of unmixed happiness. Always well-dressed, and
often much better tricked out than the richest girls in Issoudun, she
sported a gold watch and jewels, given by the doctor to encourage her
studies, and she had a master who taught her to read, write, and cipher.
But the almost animal life of the true peasant had instilled into Flore
such deep repugnance to the bitter cup of knowledge, that the doctor
stopped her education at that point. His intentions with regard to the
child, whom he cleansed and clothed, and taught, and formed with a care
which was all the more remarkable because he was thought to be utterly
devoid of tenderness, were interpreted in a variety of ways by the
cackling society of the town, whose gossip often gave rise to fatal
blunders, like those relating to the birth of Agathe and that of Max. It
is not easy for the community of a country town to disentangle the truth
from the mass of conjecture and contradictory reports to which a single
fact gives rise. The provinces insist--as in former days the politicians
of the little Provence at the Tuileries insisted--on full explanations,
and they usually end by knowing everything. But each person clings to
the version of the event which he, or she, likes best; proclaims it,
argues it, and considers it the only true one. In spite of the strong
light cast upon people's lives by the constant spying of a little
town, truth is thus often obscured; and to be recognized, it needs the
i