him taste a prison for a couple of days, and I know well enough the
mother will be off in a jiffy for Paris when she gets him out. And
then we needn't fear the priests they talk of setting on the old
fool."

When Flore Brazier came downstairs, she found the assembled crowd
quite prepared to take the impression she meant to give them. She went
out with tears in her eyes, and related, sobbing, how the painter,
"who had just the face for that sort of thing," had been angry with
Max the night before about some pictures he had "wormed out" of Pere
Rouget.

"That brigand--for you've only got to look at him to see what he is
--thinks that if Max were dead, his uncle would leave him his fortune;
as if," she cried, "a brother were not more to him than a nephew! Max
is Doctor Rouget's son. The old one told me so before he died!"

"Ah! he meant to do the deed just before he left Issoudun; he chose
his time, for he was going away to-day," said one of the Knights of
Idleness.

"Max hasn't an enemy in Issoudun," said another.

"Besides, Max recognized the painter," said the Rabouilleuse.

"Where's that cursed Parisian? Let us find him!" they all cried.

"Find him?" was the answer, "why, he left Monsieur Hochon's at
daybreak."