He had therefore never allowed any one, no matter who, to speak to him
on the subject of Mademoiselle Flore Brazier, the servant-mistress of
Jean-Jacques Rouget, so energetically termed a "slut" by the
respectable Madame Hochon. Everybody knew it was too ticklish a
subject with Max, ever to speak of it unless he began it; and hitherto
he had never begun it. To risk his anger or irritate him was
altogether too dangerous; so that even his best friends had never
joked him about the Rabouilleuse. When they talked of his liaison with
the girl before Major Potel and Captain Renard, with whom he lived on
intimate terms, Potel would reply,--
"If he is the natural brother of Jean-Jacques Rouget where else would
you have him live?"
"Besides, after all," added Captain Renard, "the girl is a worthless
piece, and if Max does live with her where's the harm?"
After this merited snub, Francois could not at once catch up the
thread of his ideas; but he was still less able to do so when Max said
to him, gently,--
"Go on."
"Faith, no!" cried Francois.
"You needn't get angry, Max," said young Goddet; "didn't we agree to
talk freely to each other at Mere Cognette's? Shouldn't we all be
mortal enemies if we remembered outside what is said, or thought, or
done here? All the town calls Flore Brazier the Rabouilleuse; and if
Francois did happen to let the nickname slip out, is that a crime
against the Order of Idleness?"
"No," said Max, "but against our personal friendship.
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