go to such extremities in my case: besides, I will declare
all. But then I shall be an informer: never! But then I shall be
hanged--oh, oh!"

"What is the matter, Buvat?" said a clerk: "you are strangling yourself
by twisting your cravat."

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said Buvat, "I did it mechanically; I
did not mean to offend you."

Buvat stretched out his hand for another book. "'Conspiracy of the
Chevalier Louis de Rohan.' Oh, I come to nothing but conspiracies! 'Copy
of a Plan of Government found among the Papers of Monsieur de Rohan, and
entirely written by Van der Enden.' Ah, mon Dieu! yes. That is just my
case. He was hanged for having copied a plan. Oh, I shall die!
'Proces-verbal of the Torture of Francis-Affinius Van der Enden.' If
they read one day, at the end of the conspiracy of the Prince de
Listhnay, 'Proces-verbal of the Torture of Jean Buvat!'" Buvat began to
read.

"Well, well, what is the matter, Buvat?" said Ducoudray, seeing the good
man shake and grow pale: "are you ill?"

"Ah, M. Ducoudray," said Buvat, dropping the book, and dragging himself
to a seat, "ah, M. Ducoudray, I feel I am going to faint."

"That comes of reading instead of working," said an employe.

"Well, Buvat, are you better?" asked Ducoudray.

"Yes, monsieur, for my resolution is taken, taken irrevocably. It would
not be just, by Heaven, that I should bear the punishment for a crime
which I never committed. I owe it to society, to my ward, to myself. M.
Ducoudray, if the curator asks for me, you will tell him that I am gone
out on pressing business."

And Buvat drew the roll of paper from the drawer, pressed his hat on to
his head, took his stick, and went out with the majesty of despair.

"Do you know where he has gone?" asked the employe.

"No," answered Ducoudray.

"I will tell you;--to play at bowls at the Champs-Elysees, or at
Porcherons."

The employe was wrong; he had neither gone to the Champs-Elysees nor to
Porcherons. He had gone to Dubois.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE FOX AND THE GOOSE.

"M. Jean Buvat," said the usher. Dubois stretched out his viper's head,
darted a look at the opening which was left between the usher and the
door, and, behind the official introducer, perceived a little fat man,
pale, and whose legs shook under him, and who coughed to give himself
assurance. A glance sufficed to inform Dubois the sort of person he had
to deal with.

"Let him come in," said Dubois.

The usher