On the morrow, between nine and eleven o’clock, all the women talked to each other from door to door throughout the town. The story of the wonderful change in the Rouget household spread everywhere. The upshot of the conversations was the same on all sides,—
“What will happen at the banquet between Max and Colonel Bridau?”
Philippe said but few words to the Vedie,—“Six hundred francs’ annuity, or dismissal.” They were enough, however, to keep her neutral, for a time, between the two great powers, Philippe and Flore.
Knowing Max’s life to be in danger, Flore became more affectionate to Rouget than in the first days of their alliance. Alas! in love, a self-interested devotion is sometimes more agreeable than a truthful one; and that is why many men pay so much for clever deceivers. The Rabouilleuse did not appear till the next morning, when she came down to breakfast with Rouget on her arm. Tears filled her eyes as she beheld, sitting in Max’s place, the terrible adversary, with his sombre blue eyes, and the cold, sinister expression on his face.
“What is the matter, mademoiselle?” he said, after wishing his uncle good-morning.
“She can’t endure the idea of your fighting Maxence,” said old Rouget.
“I have not the slightest desire to kill Gilet,” answered Philippe. “He need only take himself off from Issoudun and go to America on a venture. I should be the first to advise you to give him an outfit, and to wish him a safe voyage. He would soon make a fortune there, and that is far more honorable than turning Issoudun topsy-turvy at night, and playing the devil in your household.”
“Well, that’s fair enough,” said Rouget, glancing at Flore.
“A-mer-i-ca!” she ejaculated, sobbing.
“It is better to kick his legs about in a free country than have them rot in a pine box in France. However, perhaps you think he is a good shot, and can kill me; it’s on the cards,” observed the colonel.