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Updated: June 3, 2025
And he returned to his door with an indifferent air, but watching Buvat as he did so. Buvat, however, went on with a pride that was almost grotesque, and, without turning once, went straight home. Bathilde heard him, as he came up the staircase, striking his cane against the balusters, as he was in the habit of doing.
In going to make his declaration to the commissary of the quarter and his arrangements for the funeral, Buvat had not forgotten to look for a woman who could take care of little Bathilde, an office which he could not undertake himself; firstly, because he was entirely ignorant of its duties; and, secondly, because it would be impossible to leave the child alone during the six hours he spent daily at the office.
Buvat ascended the steps of the staircase one by one, stopping frequently to wipe his forehead; then, on arriving on the landing, where was his room and that of Clarice, he was obliged to lean his head against the wall, for he felt his legs fail him. He stood silent and hesitating, when he thought he heard Bathilde's voice crying. He remembered the poor child, and this gave him courage.
D'Harmental advanced toward him with that ease of which people of a certain class have not even an idea. "It is to Monsieur Buvat," he said, "that I have the honor of speaking?" "To myself, sir," said Buvat, starting at the sound of a voice which he thought he recognized; "but the honor is on my side." "You know the Abbe Brigaud?" continued D'Harmental.
Buvat undertook the commission without suspecting any trick, and executed it with his ordinary naïveté. The dealer, accustomed to such propositions, turned them round and round with a disdainful air, and, criticising them severely, said that he could only offer fifteen francs each for them.
"And who the devil is M. Buvat?" "It is I, monseigneur," said the poor fellow, venturing to slip between the valet and the door, and bowing his honest head before the prime minister. "Well, who are you?" asked Dubois, as if he had never seen him before. "What, monseigneur!" exclaimed the astonished Buvat; "do you not recognize me? I come to congratulate you on the discovery of the conspiracy."
"A revolution, monsieur! never, oh, never! Good heavens, my devotion to monseigneur the regent is known; a disinterested devotion, since he has not paid me for five years, as you know." "Well, go on with your work." Buvat continued: "'Conspiracy of Monsieur de Cinq Mars' diable! diable! I have heard of that. He was a gallant gentleman, who was in correspondence with Spain; that cursed Spain.
There was no need to repeat the request Buvat set off at a trot, gained the Place des Victoires, the Rue du Mail, the Rue Montmartre, and at last arrived at his own house, No. 4, Rue du Temps-Perdu, where, nevertheless, he did not think himself safe till he had shut the door and bolted it behind him.
The poor woman did not cry, she did not complain; she stood tearless and speechless, her eyes fixed and hollow as those of a maniac. When Buvat entered, she did not even turn her head toward him, but merely holding out her hand, she presented him the letter.
By a miracle of foresight Bathilde had been right the man in the felt hat and the cloak, who had protected Buvat, was really the young stranger, for the stranger had on a felt hat and a cloak; and moreover, hardly had he returned and shut the door, with almost as much care as Buvat had his, and thrown his cloak on a chair, than she saw that he had a tight coat of a dark color, and in his belt a sword and pistols.
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