Flore sent her master, as the children say, into
disgrace. No more tender glances, no more of the caressing little
words in various tones with which she decked her conversation,--"my
kitten," "my old darling," "my bibi," "my rat," etc. A "you," cold and
sharp and ironically respectful, cut like the blade of a knife through
the heart of the miserable old bachelor. The "you" was a declaration
of war. Instead of helping the poor man with his toilet, handing him
what he wanted, forestalling his wishes, looking at him with the sort
of admiration which all women know how to express, and which, in some
cases, the coarser it is the better it pleases,--saying, for instance,
"You look as fresh as a rose!" or, "What health you have!" "How
handsome you are, my old Jean!"--in short, instead of entertaining him
with the lively chatter and broad jokes in which he delighted, Flore
left him to dress alone. If he called her, she answered from the foot
of the staircase, "I can't do everything at once; how can I look after
your breakfast and wait upon you up there? Are not you big enough to
dress your own self?"
"Oh, dear! what have I done to displease her?" the old man asked
himself that morning, as he got one of these rebuffs after calling for
his shaving-water.
"Vedie, take up the hot water," cried Flore.
"Vedie!" exclaimed the poor man, stupefied with fear of the anger that
was crushing him. "Vedie, what is the matter with Madame this
morning?"
Flore Brazier required her master and Vedie and Kouski and Max to call
her Madame.
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