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Updated: September 3, 2025
This was the only revenge of Philippe le Debonnaire. Four years after this event, Buvat, reinstated in his place and with his arrears paid had the satisfaction of placing a pen in the hand of a fine boy of three years old he was the son of Raoul and Bathilde. The two first names which the child wrote were Albert du Rocher and Clarice Gray.
The time, nevertheless, flowed away with its accustomed rapidity, and four o'clock struck, when the lovers fancied that they had only been together a few minutes. It was the hour at which he generally took his leave. If Buvat returned, he would probably return at this time.
"What! monseigneur," continued poor Buvat, getting more and more frightened, "do you not recollect that you told me, here, in this very room, that I had my fortune at my fingers' ends?" "And now," said Dubois, "I tell you that you have your life in your legs, for unless you decamp pretty quick " "But, monseigneur "
Buvat had been at work as usual, but about four o'clock, as he rose, and took his hat in one hand and his cane in the other, Dubois came in and took him into a little room above that where he had been working, and, having arrived there, asked him what he thought of the apartment.
Buvat mixed up in a conspiracy Buvat charged with a state secret Buvat holding in his hands, perhaps, the fate of nations: a smaller thing would have thrown him into a state of strange perplexity. Thus seconds, minutes, hours flowed away, and Buvat remained on his chair, his head drooping, his eyes fixed on the floor, and perfectly still.
Look, monsieur," and he read: "'Nothing is more important than to make sure of the places in the neighborhood of the Pyrenees, and the noblemen who reside in the cantons." "But, monseigneur, it was just by that that I made the discovery." "M. Buvat, they have sent men to the galleys for less than you have done." "Monseigneur!" "M. Buvat, men have been hanged who were less guilty than you."
There having been an alarm of fire three or four days before, the books had been thrown on the floor, or carried out of the reach of the flames, and there were consequently four or five thousand volumes to be reinstated in their proper places; and, as it was a particularly tedious business, Buvat had been selected for it, and had hitherto acquitted himself with an intelligence and assiduity which had merited the commendations of his superiors, and the raillery of his colleagues.
"My father," said Bathilde, "what has been done to-day has been the work of men, what remains is in the hands of God, and he will have pity on us." "Oh!" cried Buvat, sinking into a chair, "it is I who have killed him! it is I who have killed him!" Bathilde went up to him solemnly and kissed him. "But what are you going to do, my child?" "My duty," answered Bathilde.
"Monsieur," said Buvat, "for ten years the king has paid me down on the nail; surely after that he has a right to ask for a little credit if he is embarrassed." "Vile flatterer," said the clerk. The month passed, and pay-day came again. Buvat presented himself with the most perfect confidence that they would pay his arrears; but to his astonishment they told him that there was still no money.
She thought it would be no use to ask Buvat, and addressing herself to Nanette, who, after a short time, avowed all to her, Bathilde learned for the first time all she owed to Buvat; and that to pay her masters, and to amass her dowry, Buvat worked from morning till night; and that in spite of this, as his salary was not paid, he would be obliged sooner or later to tell Bathilde that they must retrench all expenses that were not absolutely necessary.
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