"I shall forget your fault."
"Monseigneur is too good."
"And, perhaps, I will even reward you."
"Oh, monseigneur, what magnanimity!"
"Well, well, set to work."
"I am ready, monseigneur. I am ready."
And Buvat began to write in his most flowing hand, and never moving his eyes, except from the original to the copy, and staying from time to time to wipe his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. Dubois profited by his industry to open the closet for La Fillon, and signing to her to be silent, he led her toward the door.
"Well, gossip," whispered she, for in spite of his caution she could not restrain her curiosity; "where is your writer?"
"There he is," said Dubois, showing Buvat, who, leaning over his paper, was working away industriously.
"What is he doing?"