pherers of Issoudun
put, at the very least, thirty thousand francs' income to the doctor's
credit. From the time of his wife's death he led a debauched life,
though he regulated it, so to speak, and kept it within the closed doors
of his own house. This man, endowed with "strength of character," died
in 1805, and God only knows what the townspeople of Issoudun said about
him then, and how many anecdotes they related of his horrible private
life. Jean-Jacques Rouget, whom his father, recognizing his stupidity,
had latterly treated with severity, remained a bachelor for certain
reasons, the explanation of which will form an important part of this
history. His celibacy was partly his father's fault, as we shall see
later.

Meantime, it is well to inquire into the results of the secret vengeance
the doctor took on a daughter whom he did not recognize as his own, but
who, you must understand at once, was legitimately his. Not a person in
Issoudun had noticed one of those capricious facts that make the whole
subject of generation a vast abyss in which science flounders. Agathe
bore a strong likeness to the mother of Doctor Rouget. Just as gout
is said to skip a generation and pass from grandfather to grandson,
resemblances not uncommonly follow the same course.

In like manner, the eldest of Agathe's children, who physically
resembled his mother, had the moral qualities of his grandfather, Doctor
Rouget. We will leave the solution of this problem to the twentieth
century, with a fine collection of microscopic animalculae; our
descendants may perhaps write as much nonsense as the scientific schools
of the nineteenth century have uttered on this mysterious and perplexing
question.

Agathe Rouget attracted the admiration of everyone by a face destined,
like that of Mary, the mother of our Lord, to continue ever virgin, even
after marriage. Her portrait, still to be seen in the atelier of Bridau,
shows a perfect oval and a clear whiteness of complexion, without the
faintest tinge of color, in spite of her golden hair. More than one
artist, looking at the pure brow, the discreet, composed mouth, the
delicate nose, the small ears, the long lashes, and the dark-blue eyes
filled with tenderness,--in short, at the whole countenance expressive
of placidity,--has asked the great artist, "Is that a copy of a
Raphael?" No man ever acted under a truer inspiration than the
minister's secretary when he married this young girl. Agathe was