The moment was unlucky. Dubois, who had been constantly on his feet for four or five days, suffered horribly from the malady which was to cause his death in a few months; moreover, he was beyond measure annoyed that only D'Harmental had been taken, and had just given orders to Leblanc and D'Argenson to press on the trial with all possible speed, when his valet-de-chambre, who was accustomed to see the worthy writer arrive every morning, announced M. Buvat.
"And who the devil is M. Buvat?"
"It is I, monseigneur," said the poor fellow, venturing to slip between the valet and the door, and bowing his honest head before the prime minister.
"Well, who are you?" asked Dubois, as if he had never seen him before.
"What, monseigneur!" exclaimed the astonished Buvat; "do you not recognize me? I come to congratulate you on the discovery of the conspiracy."
"I get congratulations enough of that kind—thanks for yours, M. Buvat," said Dubois, quietly.
"But, monseigneur, I come also to ask a favor."
"A favor! and on what grounds?"
"Monseigneur," stammered Buvat, "but—monseigneur—do you not remember that you promised me a—a recompense?"
"A recompense to you, you double idiot."