chanced to wake up,
heard the regular breathing of human lungs outside her door, and was
frightened to discover Jean-Jacques, crouched like a dog on the landing.

"He loves me," she thought; "but he will get the rheumatism if he keeps
up that sort of thing."

The next day Flore looked at her master with a certain expression. This
mute almost instinctive love had touched her; she no longer thought
the poor ninny so ugly, though his forehead was crowned with pimples
resembling ulcers, the signs of a vitiated blood.

"You don't want to go back and live in the fields, do you?" said
Jean-Jacques when they were alone.

"Why do you ask me that?" she said, looking at him.

"To know--" replied Rouget, turning the color of a boiled lobster.

"Do you wish to send me back?" she asked.

"No, mademoiselle."

"Well, what is it you want to know? You have some reason--"

"Yes, I want to know--"

"What?" said Flore.

"You won't tell me?" exclaimed Rouget.

"Yes I will, on my honor--"

"Ah! that's it," returned Rouget, with a frightened air. "Are you an
honest girl?"

"I'll take my oath--"

"Are you, truly?"

"Don't you hear me tell you so?"

"Come; are you the same as you were when your uncle brought you here
barefooted?"

"A fine question, faith!" cried Flore, blushing.

The heir lowered his head and did not raise it again. Flore, amazed at
such an encouraging sign from a man who had been overcome by a fear of
that nature, left the room.

Three days later, at the same hour (for both seemed to regard the
dessert as a field of battle), Flore spoke first, and said to her
master,--

"Have you anything against me?"

"No, mademoiselle," he answered, "No--" (a pause) "On the contrary."

"You seemed annoyed the other day to hear I was an honest girl."

"No, I only wished to know--" (a pause) "But you would not tell me--"

"On my word!" she said, "I will tell you the whole truth."

"The whole truth about--my father?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Your father," she said, looking full into her master's eye, "was a
worthy man--he liked a joke--What of that?--there was nothing in it.
But, poor dear man, it wasn't the will that was wanting. The truth is,
he had some spite against you, I don't know what, and he meant--oh! he
meant you harm. Sometimes he made me laugh; but there! what of that?"

"Well, Flore," said the heir, taking her hand, "as my father was nothing
to you--"

"What did you suppose he was to m