Fraisier smiled inwardly at the likeness between himself and the terrible Presidente; he knew all about those suave modulations of a naturally sharp voice. He thought of another president, the hero of an anecdote related by Louis XI., stamped by that monarch’s final praise. Blessed with a wife after the pattern of Socrates’ spouse, and ungifted with the sage’s philosophy, he mingled salt with the corn in the mangers and forbad the grooms to give water to the horses. As his wife rode along the Seine towards their country-house, the animals bolted into the river with the lady, and the magistrate returned thanks to Providence for ridding him of his wife “in so natural a manner.” At this present moment Mme. de Marville thanked Heaven for placing at Pons’ bedside a woman so likely to get him “decently” out of the way. Aloud she said, “I would not take a million at the price of a single scruple.--Your friend ought to speak to M. Pons and have the woman sent away.” “In the first place, madame, Messrs. Schmucke and Pons think the woman an angel; they would send my friend away. And secondly, the doctor lies under an obligation to this horrid oyster-woman; she called him in to attend M. Pillerault. When he tells her to be as gentle as possible with the patient, he simply shows the creature how to make matters worse.” “What does your friend think of _my_ cousin’s condition?” This man’s clear, business-like way of putting the facts of the case frightened Mme. de Marville; she felt that his keen gaze read the thoughts of a heart as greedy as La Cibot’s own. “In six weeks the property will change hands.” The Presidente dropped her eyes. “Poor man!” she sighed, vainly striving after a dolorous expression. “Have you any message, madame, for M. Leboeuf? I am taking the train to Mantes.” “Yes. Wait a moment, and I will write to ask him to dine with us to-morrow. I want to see him, so that he may act in concert to repair the injustice to which you have fallen a victim.”