Buvat, instead of simply smelling the salts from a reasonable distance, put it close up under his nose. The effect was rapid. He bounded to his feet, as if the angel of Habakkuk had taken him by the hair. He sneezed for about ten minutes; then, having regained his senses, he said that he understood the honorable proposal made for Bathilde, but that he was only her guardian: that he would tell her of the proposal, but must leave her free to accept or refuse.
Madame Denis thought this perfectly right, and conducted him to the door, saying that, waiting a reply, she was their very humble servant.
Buvat went home, and found Bathilde very uneasy; he was half an hour late, which had not happened before for ten years. The uneasiness of the young girl was doubled when she saw Buvat's sad and preoccupied air, and she wanted to know directly what it was that caused the abstracted mien of her dear friend. Buvat, who had not had time to prepare a speech, tried to put off the explanation till after dinner; but Bathilde declared that she should not go to dinner till she knew what had happened. Buvat was thus obliged to deliver on the spot, and without preparation, Madame Denis's proposal to Bathilde.
Bathilde blushed directly, as a young girl always does when they talk to her of marriage; then, taking the hands of Buvat, who was sitting down, trembling with fear, and looking at him with that sweet smile which was the sun of the poor writer--
"Then, my dear father," said she, "you have had enough of your daughter, and you wish to get rid of her?"
"I," said Buvat, "I who wish to get rid of you! No, my child; it is I who shall die of grief if you leave me."
"Then, my father, why do you talk to me of marriage?"
"Because--because--some day or other you must marry, and if you find a good partner, although, God knows, my little Bathilde deserves some one better than M. Boniface."
"No, my father," answered Bathilde, "I do not deserve any one better than M. Boniface, but--"----"Well--but?"
"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.