"Take a seat, my dear M. Buvat," said he.
"Thank you, monseigneur," answered Buvat, trembling; "I am not fatigued."
"Pardon, pardon," said Dubois, "but your legs shake."
Indeed, since he had read the procès-verbal of the question of Van der Enden, Buvat had retained in his legs a nervous trembling, like that which may be observed in dogs that have just had the distemper.
"The fact is, monseigneur," said Buvat, "that I do not know what has come to me the last two hours, but I find a great difficulty in standing upright."
"Sit down, then, and let us talk like two friends."
Buvat looked at Dubois with an air of stupefaction, which, at any other time, would have had the effect of making him burst out laughing, but now he did not seem to notice it, and taking a chair himself, he repeated with his hand the invitation which he had given with his voice. There was no means of drawing back; the good man approached trembling, and sat down on the edge of his chair; put his hat on the ground, took his cane between his legs, and waited. All this, however, was not executed without a violent internal struggle as his face testified, which, from being white as a lily when he came in, had now become as red as a peony.
"My dear M. Buvat, you say that you make copies?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And that brings you in—?"