igneur, what magnanimity!"

"Well, well, set to work."

"I am ready, monseigneur. I am ready."

And Buvat began to write in his most flowing hand, and never moving his
eyes, except from the original to the copy, and staying from time to
time to wipe his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. Dubois
profited by his industry to open the closet for La Fillon, and signing
to her to be silent, he led her toward the door.

"Well, gossip," whispered she, for in spite of his caution she could not
restrain her curiosity; "where is your writer?"

"There he is," said Dubois, showing Buvat, who, leaning over his paper,
was working away industriously.

"What is he doing?"

"Guess."

"How should I know?"

"Then you want me to tell you?"

"Yes."

"Well, he is making my cardinal's hat."

La Fillon uttered such an exclamation of surprise that Buvat started and
turned round; but Dubois had already pushed her out of the room, again
recommending her to send him daily news of the captain.

But the reader will ask what Bathilde and D'Harmental were doing all
this time. Nothing--they were happy.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A CHAPTER OF SAINT-SIMON.

Four days passed thus, during which Buvat--remaining absent from the
office on pretext of indisposition--succeeded in completing the two
copies, one for the Prince de Listhnay, the other for Dubois. During
these four days--certainly the most agitated of his life--he was so
taciturn and gloomy that Bathilde several times asked him what was the
matter; but as he always answered nothing, and began to sing his little
song, Bathilde was easily deceived, particularly as he still left every
morning as if to go to the office--so that she saw no material
alteration from his ordinary habits.

As to D'Harmental, he received every morning a visit from the Abbe
Brigaud, announcing that everything was going on right; and as his own
love affairs were quite as prosperous, D'Harmental began to think that
to be a conspirator was the happiest thing on the earth.

As to the Duc d'Orleans, suspecting nothing, he continued his ordinary
life, and had invited the customary guests to his Sunday's supper, when
in the afternoon Dubois entered his room.

"All, it is you, abbe! I was going to send to you to know if you were
going to make one of us to-night."

"You are going to have a supper then, monseigneur?" asked Dubois.

"Where do you come from with your fast-day face? Is not to-day Sunday?