"You will not make me copies of those papers?"
"I will do it, I will do it this instant," said Buvat; and he went and sat down before the desk, took a pen, dipped it in the ink, and taking some paper, began the first page with a superb capital. "I will do it, I will do it, monseigneur; only you will allow me to write to Bathilde that I shall not be home to dinner. Bathilde at the Saint Lazare?" murmured Buvat between his teeth, "Sabre de bois! he would have done as he said."
"Yes, monsieur, I would have done that, and more too, for the safety of the State, as you will find out to your cost, if you do not return these papers, and if you do not take the others, and if you do not bring a copy here every evening."
"But, monseigneur," cried Buvat, in despair, "I cannot then go to my office."
"Well then, do not go to your office."
"Not go to my office! but I have not missed a day for twelve years, monseigneur."
"Well, I give you a month's leave."
"But I shall lose my place, monseigneur."
"What will that matter to you, since they do not pay you?"
"But the honor of being a public functionary, monseigneur; and, moreover, I love my books, I love my table, I love my hair seat," cried Buvat, ready to cry; "and to think that I shall lose it all!"