"No, my father," answered Bathilde, "I do not deserve any one better than M. Boniface, but—"——"Well—but?"
"But—I will never marry."
"What!" cried Buvat, "you will never marry?"
"Why should I? Are we not happy as we are?"
"Are we not happy?" echoed Buvat. "Sabre de bois! I believe we are."
Sabre de bois was an exclamation which Buvat allowed himself on great occasions, and which illustrated admirably the pacific inclinations of the worthy fellow.
"Well, then," continued Bathilde, with her angel's smile, "if we are happy, let us rest as we are. You know one should not tempt Providence."
"Come and kiss me, my child," said Buvat; "you have just lifted Montmartre off my stomach!"
"You did not wish for this marriage, then?"
"I wish to see you married to that wretched little imp of a Boniface, against whom I took a dislike the first time I saw him! I did not know why, though I know now."