er of the proposal, but must
leave her free to accept or refuse.

Madame Denis thought this perfectly right, and conducted him to the
door, saying that, waiting a reply, she was their very humble servant.

Buvat went home, and found Bathilde very uneasy; he was half an hour
late, which had not happened before for ten years. The uneasiness of the
young girl was doubled when she saw Buvat's sad and preoccupied air, and
she wanted to know directly what it was that caused the abstracted mien
of her dear friend. Buvat, who had not had time to prepare a speech,
tried to put off the explanation till after dinner; but Bathilde
declared that she should not go to dinner till she knew what had
happened. Buvat was thus obliged to deliver on the spot, and without
preparation, Madame Denis's proposal to Bathilde.

Bathilde blushed directly, as a young girl always does when they talk to
her of marriage; then, taking the hands of Buvat, who was sitting down,
trembling with fear, and looking at him with that sweet smile which was
the sun of the poor writer--

"Then, my dear father," said she, "you have had enough of your daughter,
and you wish to get rid of her?"

"I," said Buvat, "I who wish to get rid of you! No, my child; it is I
who shall die of grief if you leave me."

"Then, my father, why do you talk to me of marriage?"

"Because--because--some day or other you must marry, and if you find a
good partner, although, God knows, my little Bathilde deserves some one
better than M. Boniface."

"No, my father," answered Bathilde, "I do not deserve any one better
than M. Boniface, but--"----"Well--but?"

"But--I will never marry."

"What!" cried Buvat, "you will never marry?"

"Why should I? Are we not happy as we are?"

"Are we not happy?" echoed Buvat. "Sabre de bois! I believe we are."

Sabre de bois was an exclamation which Buvat allowed himself on great
occasions, and which illustrated admirably the pacific inclinations of
the worthy fellow.

"Well, then," continued Bathilde, with her angel's smile, "if we are
happy, let us rest as we are. You know one should not tempt Providence."

"Come and kiss me, my child," said Buvat; "you have just lifted
Montmartre off my stomach!"

"You did not wish for this marriage, then?"

"I wish to see you married to that wretched little imp of a Boniface,
against whom I took a dislike the first time I saw him! I did not know
why, though I know now."

"If you did not desire this