At the time when Madame Bridau returned to Issoudun to save — as Maitre Desroches expressed it — an inheritance that was seriously threatened, Jean–Jacques Rouget had reached by degrees a condition that was semi-vegetative. In the first place, after Max’s instalment, Flore put the table on an episcopal footing. Rouget, thrown in the way of good living, ate more and still more, enticed¹ by the Vedie’s excellent dishes. He grew no fatter, however, in spite of this abundant and luxurious² nourishment³. From day to day he weakened like a worn-out man — fatigued⁵, perhaps, with the effort of digestion⁶ — and his eyes had dark circles around them. Still, when his friends and neighbors met him in his walks and questioned him about his health, he always answered that he was never better in his life. As he had always been thought extremely deficient⁷ in mind, people did not notice the constant lowering of his faculties⁸. His love for Flore was the one thing that kept him alive; in fact, he existed only for her, and his weakness in her presence was unbounded; he obeyed the creature’s mere⁹ look, and watched her movements as a dog watches every gesture of his master. In short, as Madame Hochon remarked, at fifty-seven years of age he seemed older than Monsieur Hochon, an octogenarian.

Every one will suppose, and with reason, that Max’s appartement was worthy¹¹ of so charming a fellow. In fact, in the course of six years our captain had by degrees perfected the comfort of his abode¹² and

分享到：