de his son extremely unhappy, especially since
he came of age, which happened in 1791; but he had given the little
peasant-girl the material pleasures which are the ideal of happiness to
country-folk. When Fanchette asked Flore, after the funeral, "Well, what
is to become of you, now that monsieur is dead?" Jean-Jacques's eyes
lighted up, and for the first time in his life his dull face grew
animated, showed feeling, and seemed to brighten under the rays of a
thought.

"Leave the room," he said to Fanchette, who was clearing the table.

At seventeen, Flore retained that delicacy of feature and form, that
distinction of beauty which attracted the doctor, and which women of the
world know how to preserve, though it fades among the peasant-girls
like the flowers of the field. Nevertheless, the tendency to embonpoint,
which handsome countrywomen develop when they no longer live a life
of toil and hardship in the fields and in the sunshine, was already
noticeable about her. Her bust had developed. The plump white shoulders
were modelled on rich lines that harmoniously blended with those of the
throat, already showing a few folds of flesh. But the outline of the
face was still faultless, and the chin delicate.

"Flore," said Jean-Jacques, in a trembling voice, "you feel at home in
this house?"

"Yes, Monsieur Jean."

As the heir was about to make his declaration, he felt his tongue
stiffen at the recollection of the dead man, just put away in his grave,
and a doubt seized him as to what lengths his father's benevolence might
have gone. Flore, who was quite unable even to suspect his simplicity
of mind, looked at her future master and waited for a time, expecting
Jean-Jacques to go on with what he was saying; but she finally left
him without knowing what to think of such obstinate silence. Whatever
teaching the Rabouilleuse may have received from the doctor, it was many
a long day before she finally understood the character of Jean-Jacques,
whose history we now present in a few words.

At the death of his father, Jacques, then thirty-seven, was as timid and
submissive to paternal discipline as a child of twelve years old. That
timidity ought to explain his childhood, youth, and after-life to those
who are reluctant to admit the existence of such characters, or such
facts as this history relates,--though proofs of them are, alas, common
everywhere, even among princes; for Sophie Dawes was taken by the last
of the Condes