hat a fatal result this infraction of the will of Monsieur de
Saint-Mars had had for the unfortunate prisoner, so that he feared, by
such an action, to increase the rigors of his captivity, which at
present seemed to him tolerable.

The result of all these reflections was, that Buvat passed the morning
in a much less agitated manner than he had the evening and the night;
moreover, his hunger--appeased by the roll and the coffee--only existed
in the form of that appetite which is an enjoyment when one is sure of a
good dinner. Add to all this the particularly cheerful look-out which
the prisoner had from his window, and it will be easily understood that
mid-day arrived without too many sorrows, or too much ennui.

Exactly at one o'clock the door opened, and the table reappeared ready
laid, and brought, like the day before and that morning, by the two
valets. But this time, it was neither Monsieur Bourguignon nor Monsieur
Comtois who sat down to it. Buvat declared himself perfectly reassured
concerning the intentions of his august host; he thanked Messieurs
Comtois and Bourguignon for the devotion of which each in turn had given
him a proof, and begged them to wait upon him in their turn. The two
servants made wry faces, but obeyed. It will be understood that the
happy disposition in which Buvat now was became more blissful under the
influence of a good dinner. Buvat ate all the eatables, drank all the
drinkables, and at last, after having sipped his coffee--a luxury which
he usually only allowed himself on Sundays--and having capped the
Arabian nectar with a glass of Madame Anfoux' liquor, was, it must be
confessed, in a state bordering upon ecstasy.

That evening the supper was equally successful; but as Buvat had
abandoned himself at dinner rather freely to the consumption of
Chambertin and Sillery, about eight o'clock in the evening he found
himself in a state of glorification impossible to describe. The
consequence was, that when the valet-de-chambre entered, instead of
finding him like the evening before, with his head under the bed, he
found Buvat seated on a comfortable sofa, his feet on the hobs, his head
leaning back, his eyes winking, and singing between his teeth, with an
expression of infinite tenderness:

"Then let me go,
And let me play,
Beneath the hazel-tree."

Which, as may be seen, was a great improvement on the state of the
worthy writer twenty-four hours before. Moreover, when the
v