related, with the exception that now it was Monsieur Comtois who ate and
Monsieur Bourguignon who waited; but when it came to the coffee, and
Buvat, who had taken nothing for twenty-four hours, saw his dearly-loved
beverage, after having passed from the silver coffee-pot into the
porcelain cup, pass into the cavernous mouth of Monsieur Comtois, he
could hold out no longer, and declared that his stomach demanded to be
amused with something, and that, consequently, he desired that they
would leave him the coffee and a roll. This declaration appeared to
disturb the devotion of Monsieur Comtois, who was nevertheless obliged
to satisfy himself with one cup of the odoriferous liquid, which,
together with a roll and the sugar, was placed on a little table, while
the two scamps carried off the rest of the feast, laughing in their
sleeves.

Scarcely was the door closed, when Buvat darted toward the little table,
and, without even waiting to dip one into the other, ate the bread and
drank the coffee; then, a little comforted by that repast, insufficient
as it was, began to look at things in a less gloomy point of view.

In truth, Buvat was not wanting in a certain kind of good sense, and, as
he had passed the preceding evening and night, and entered on the
present morning, without interference, he began to understand that,
though from some political motive they had deprived him of his liberty,
they were far from wishing to shorten his days, and surrounded him, on
the contrary, with cares, of which he had never before been the object.
He had seen that the dinner of the day before was better than his
ordinary dinner--that the bed was softer than his ordinary bed--that the
coffee he had just drunk possessed an aroma which the mixture of chicory
took away from his, and he could not conceal from himself that the
elastic couches and stuffed chairs which he had sat upon for the last
twenty-four hours were much preferable to the hair sofa and cane chairs
of his own establishment. The only thing, then, which remained to
trouble him, was the uneasiness which Bathilde would feel at his not
returning. He had for an instant the idea--not daring to renew the
request which he had made the day before, to have news of him sent to
his ward--of imitating the man with the iron mask, who had thrown a
silver plate from the window of his prison on to the shore, by throwing
a letter from his balcony into the courtyard of the Palais Royal; but he
knew w