r to take them to M. Papillon
and ask for the eighty francs he had offered to Buvat. Nanette obeyed,
and Bathilde awaited her return with great anxiety, for she still
believed there must be some mistake as to the price. Ten minutes
afterward she was quite assured, for the good woman entered with the
money. Bathilde looked at it for an instant with tears in her eyes, then
kneeling before the crucifix at the foot of her bed, she offered up a
thanksgiving that she was enabled to return to Buvat a part of what he
had done for her.

The next day Buvat, in returning from the office, passed before
Papillon's door, but his astonishment was great when, through the
windows of the shop, he saw the drawings. The door opened and Papillon
appeared.

"So," said he, "you thought better of it, and made up your mind to part
with the two drawings which were not for sale? Ah! I did not know you
were so cunning, neighbor. But, however, tell Mademoiselle Bathilde,
that, as she is a good girl, out of consideration for her, if she will
do two such drawings every month, and promise not to draw for any one
else for a year, I will take them at the same price."

Buvat was astonished; he grumbled out an answer which the man could not
hear, and went home. He went upstairs and opened the door without
Bathilde having heard him. She was drawing; she had already begun
another head, and perceiving her good friend standing at the door with a
troubled air, she put down her paper and pencils and ran to him, asking
what was the matter. Buvat wiped away two great tears,

"So," said he, "the child of my benefactors, of Clarice Gray and Albert
du Rocher, is working for her bread!"

"Father," replied Bathilde, half crying, half laughing; "I am not
working, I am amusing myself."

The word "father" was substituted on great occasions for "kind friend,"
and ordinarily had the effect of calming his greatest troubles, but this
time it failed.

"I am neither your father, nor your good friend," murmured he, "but
simply poor Buvat, whom the king pays no longer, and who does not gain
enough by his writing to continue to give you the education you ought to
have."

"Oh! you want to make me die with grief," cried Bathilde, bursting into
tears, so plainly was Buvat's distress painted on his countenance.

"I kill you with grief, my child?" said Buvat, with an accent of
profound tenderness. "What have I done? What have I said? You must not
cry. It wanted nothing but