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 episcopalfooting. Rouget, thrown in the way of good
living, ate more and still more, enticed by the Vedie's excellent

dishes. He grew no fatter, however, in spite of this abundant and
luxurious nourishment. From day to day he weakened like a worn-out

man,--fatigued, perhaps, with the effort of digestion,--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 deficient in mind, people did not notice the
constant lowering of his faculties. 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 mere

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

worthy of so charming a fellow. In fact, in the course of six years
our captain had by degrees perfected the comfort of his abode and

adorned every detail of it, as much for his own pleasure as for
Flore's. But it was, after all, only the comfort and luxury of

Issoudun,--colored tiles, rather elegant wallpapers, mahogany
furniture, mirrors in gilt frames, muslin curtains with red borders, a

bed with a canopy, and draperies arranged as the provincial
upholsterers arrange them for a rich bride; which in the eyes of

Issoudun seemed the height of luxury, but are so common in vulgar
fashion-plates that even the petty shopkeepers in Paris have discarded

them at their weddings. One very unusual thing appeared, which caused
much talk in Issoudun, namely, a rush-matting on the stairs, no doubt

to muffle the sound of feet. In fact, though Max was in the habit of
coming in at daybreak, he never woke any one, and Rouget was far from

suspecting that his guest was an accomplice in the nocturnal
performances of the Knights of Idleness.

About eight o'clock the next morning, Flore, wearing a dressing-gown
of some pretty cotton stuff with narrow pink stripes, a lace cap on

her head, and her feet in furred slippers, softly opened the door of
Max's chamber; seeing that he slept, she remained standing beside the

bed.
"He came in so late!" she said to herself. "It was half-past three. He

must have a good constitution to stand such amusements. Isn't he
strong, the dear love! I wonder what they did last night."

"Oh, there you are, my little Flore!" said Max, waking like a soldier
trained by the necessities of war to have his wits and his self-

possession about him the instant that he waked, however suddenly it
might happen.

"You are sleepy; I'll go away."
"No, stay; there's something serious going on."

"Were you up to some mischief last night?"
"Ah, bah! It concerns you and me and that old fool. You never told me

he had a family! Well, his family are coming,--coming here,--no doubt
to turn us out, neck and crop."

"Ah! I'll shake him well," said Flore.
"Mademoiselle Brazier," said Max gravely, "things are too serious for

giddiness. Send me my coffee; I'll take it in bed, where I'll think
over what we had better do. Come back at nine o'clock, and we'll talk

about it. Meanwhile, behave as if you had heard nothing."
Frightened at the news, Flore left Max and went to make his coffee;

but a quarter of an hour later, Baruch burst into Max's bedroom,
crying out to the grand master,--

"Fario is hunting for his barrow!"
In five minutes Max was dressed and in the street, and though he

sauntered along with apparentindifference, he soon reached the foot
of the tower embankment, where he found quite a collection of people.

"What is it?" asked Max, making his way through the crowd and reaching
the Spaniard.

Fario was a withered little man, as ugly as though he were a blue-
blooded grandee. His fiery eyes, placed very close to his nose and

piercing as a gimlet, would have won him the name of a sorcerer in
Naples. He seemed gentle because he was calm, quiet, and slow in his

movements; and for this reason people commonly called him "goodman
Fario." But his skin--the color of gingerbread--and his softness of

manner only hid from stupid eyes, and disclosed to observing ones, the
half-Moorish nature of a peasant of Granada, which nothing had as yet

roused from its phlegmatic indolence.
"Are you sure," Max said to him, after listening to his grievance,

"that you brought your cart to this place? for, thank God, there are
no thieves in Issoudun."

"I left it just there--"
"If the horse was harnessed to it, hasn't he drawn it somewhere."

"Here's the horse," said Fario, pointing to the animal, which stood
harnessed thirty feet away.

Max went gravely up to the place where the horse stood, because from
there the bottom of the tower at the top of the embankment could be

seen,--the crowd being at the foot of the mound. Everybody followed
Max, and that was what the scoundrel wanted.

"Has anybody thoughtlessly put a cart in his pocket?" cried Francois.
"Turn out your pockets, all of you!" said Baruch.

Shouts of laughter resounded on all sides. Fario swore. Oaths, with a
Spaniard, denote the highest pitch of anger.

"Was your cart light?" asked Max.
"Light!" cried Fario. "If those who laugh at me had it on their feet,

their corns would never hurt them again."
"Well, it must be devilishly light," answered Max, "for look there!"

pointing to the foot of the tower; "it has flown up the embankment."
At these words all eyes were lifted to the spot, and for a moment

there was a perfect uproar in the market-place. Each man pointed at
the barrow bewitched, and all their tongues wagged.

"The devil makes common cause with the inn-keepers," said Goddet to
the astonished Spaniard. "He means to teach you not to leave your cart

about in the streets, but to put it in the tavern stables."
At this speech the crowd hooted, for Fario was thought to be a miser.

"Come, my good fellow," said Max, "don't lose heart. We'll go up to
the tower and see how your barrow got there. Thunder and cannon! we'll

lend you a hand! Come along, Baruch."
"As for you," he whispered to Francois, "get the people to stand back,

and make sure there is nobody at the foot of the embankment when you
see us at the top."

Fario, Max, Baruch, and three other knights climbed to the foot of the
tower. During the rather perilousascent Max and Fario noticed that no

damage to the embankment, nor even trace of the passage of the barrow,
could be seen. Fario began to imagine witchcraft, and lost his head.

When they reached the top and examined into the matter, it really
seemed a thing impossible that the cart had got there.

"How shall I ever get it down?" said the Spaniard, whose little eyes
began for the first time to show fear; while his swarthy yellow face,

which seemed as it if could never change color, whitened.
"How?" said Max. "Why, that's not difficult."

And takingadvantage of the Spaniard's stupefaction, he raised the
barrow by the shafts with his robust arms and prepared to fling it

down, calling in thundering tones as it left his grasp, "Look out
there, below!"

No accident happened, for the crowd, persuaded by Francois and eaten
up with curiosity, had retired to a distance from which they could see

more clearly what went on at the top of the embankment. The cart was
dashed to an infinite number of pieces in a very picturesque manner.

"There! you have got it down," said Baruch.
"Ah, brigands! ah, scoundrels!" cried Fario; "perhaps it was you who