hen he began to think that
she was not indifferent to him; then he told her how he had received, as
colonel of carabineers, the order to go to Brittany, and on his return
was obliged to render an account of his mission to the Duchesse de Maine
before returning to Paris. He had gone directly to Sceaux, expecting
only to leave his dispatches in passing, when he had found himself in
the midst of the fete, in which he had been obliged unwillingly to take
a part. This recital was finished by expressions of regret, and such
protestations of fidelity and love that Bathilde almost forgot the
beginning of his discourse in listening to the end.

It was now her turn. She also had a long history to tell D'Harmental; it
was the history of her life. With a certain pride in proving to her
lover that she was worthy of him, she showed herself as a child with her
father and mother, then an orphan and abandoned; then appeared Buvat
with his plain face and his sublime heart, and she told all his
kindness, all his love to his pupil; she passed in review her careless
childhood, and her pensive youth; then she arrived at the time when she
first saw D'Harmental, and here she stopped and smiled, for she felt
that he had nothing more to learn. Yet D'Harmental insisted on hearing
it all from her own lips, and would not spare her a single detail. Two
hours passed thus like two seconds, and they were still there when some
one rang at the door. Bathilde looked at the clock which was in the
corner of the room; it was six minutes past four; there was no mistake,
it was Buvat. Bathilde's first movement was one of fear, but Raoul
reassured her, smiling, for he had the pretext with which the Abbe
Brigaud had furnished him. The two lovers exchanged a last grasp of the
hand, then Bathilde went to open the door to her guardian, who, as
usual, kissed her on the forehead, then, on entering the room, perceived
D'Harmental. Buvat was astonished; he had never before found any man
with his pupil. Buvat fixed on him his astonished eyes and waited; he
fancied he had seen the young man before. 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.

"Yes, perfectl