did not even
dream of profiting, took the drawings and left the shop with all the
dignity of wounded pride. When he returned, the dealer was standing, as
if by chance, at his door. Buvat, seeing him, kept at a distance; but
the shopkeeper came to him, and, putting his two hands on his
shoulders, asked him if he would not let him have the two drawings for
the price he had named. Buvat replied a second time, sharply, that they
were not for sale. "That is a pity," replied the dealer, "for I would
have given eighty francs." 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. She ran out to meet him, for she was very anxious to hear the
result of the negotiation, and, with the remains of her childish habits,
throwing her arms round his neck--

"Well, my friend," asked she, "what did M. Papillon say?"

"M. Papillon," replied Buvat, wiping his forehead, "is an impertinent
rascal."

Poor Bathilde turned pale.

"How so?" asked she.

"Yes; an impertinent rascal, who, instead of admiring your drawings, has
dared to criticise them."

"Oh! if that is all," said Bathilde, laughing, "he is right. Remember
that I am but a scholar. But did he offer any price?"

"Yes," said Buvat; "he had impertinence enough for that."

"What price?" asked Bathilde, trembling.

"He offered eighty francs."

"Eighty francs!" cried Bathilde. "Oh! you must be mistaken."

"I tell you he offered eighty francs for the two," replied Buvat, laying
a stress on each syllable.

"But it is four times as much as they are worth," said the young girl,
clapping her hands for joy.

"It is possible, though I do not think so; but it is none the less true
that M. Papillon is an impertinent rascal!"

This was not Bathilde's opinion; but she changed the conversation,
saying that dinner was ready--an announcement which generally gave a new
course to Buvat's ideas. Buvat gave back the drawings to Bathilde
without further observation, and entered the little sitting-room,
singing the inevitable, "Then let me go," etc.

He dined with as good an appetite as if there had been no M. Papillon in
the world. The same evening, while Buvat was making copies, Bathilde
gave the drawings to Nanette, telling he