“Monsieur is very feeble,” interposed Mademoiselle Brazier; “just now he was unwilling even to go out in the carriage,” she added, turning upon the old man the fixed look with which keepers quell a maniac.
Philippe took Flore by the arm, compelling her to look at him, and looking at her in return as fixedly as she had just looked at her victim.
“Tell me, mademoiselle,” he said, “is it a fact that my uncle is not free to take a walk with me?”
“Why, yes he is, monsieur,” replied Flore, who was unable to make any other answer.
“Very well. Come, uncle. Mademoiselle, give him his hat and cane.”
“But—he never goes out without me. Do you, monsieur?”
“Yes, Philippe, yes; I always want her—”
“It would be better to take the carriage,” said Flore.
“Yes, let us take the carriage,” cried the old man, in his anxiety to make his two tyrants agree.
“Uncle, you will come with me, alone, and on foot, or I shall never return here; I shall know that the town of Issoudun tells the truth, when it declares you are under the dominion of Mademoiselle Flore Brazier. That my uncle should love you, is all very well,” he resumed, holding Flore with a fixed eye; “that you should not love my uncle is also on the cards; but when it comes to your making him unhappy—halt! If people want to get hold of an inheritance, they must earn it. Are you coming, uncle?”