“Of his wife. If he had stayed with me, he would be living now. Good-bye, dear old boy, I am talking of going off, because I can see that you will be walking about the boulevards in a week or two, hunting up pretty little curiosities again. You are not ill; I never saw your eyes look so bright.” And she went, fully convinced that her protege Garangeot would conduct the orchestra for good. Every door stood ajar as she went downstairs. Every lodger, on tip-toe, watched the lady of the ballet pass on her way out. It was quite an event in the house. Fraisier, like the bulldog that sets his teeth and never lets go, was on the spot. He stood beside La Cibot when Mlle. Brisetout passed under the gateway and asked for the door to be opened. Knowing that a will had been made, he had come to see how the land lay, for Maitre Trognon, notary, had refused to say a syllable--Fraisier’s questions were as fruitless as Mme. Cibot’s. Naturally the ballet-girl’s visit _in extremis_ was not lost upon Fraisier; he vowed to himself that he would turn it to good account. “My dear Mme. Cibot,” he began, “now is the critical moment for you.” “Ah, yes... my poor Cibot!” said she. “When I think that he will not live to enjoy anything I may get--” “It is a question of finding out whether M. Pons has left you anything at all; whether your name is mentioned or left out, in fact,” he interrupted. “I represent the next-of-kin, and to them you must look in any case. It is a holograph will, and consequently very easy to upset.--Do you know where our man has put it?” “In a secret drawer in his bureau, and he has the key of it. He tied it to a corner of his handkerchief, and put it under his pillow. I saw it all.” “Is the will sealed?” “Yes, alas!” “It is a criminal offence if you carry off a will and suppress it, but it is only a misdemeanor to look at it; and anyhow, what does it amount to? A peccadillo, and nobody will see you. Is your man a heavy sleeper?” “Yes. But when you tried to see all the things and value them, he ought to have slept like a top, and yet he woke up. Still, I will see about it. I will take M. Schmucke’s place about four o’clock this morning; and if you care to come, you shall have the will in your hands for ten minutes.” “Good. I will come up about four o’clock, and I will knock very softly--” “Mlle Remonencq will take my place with Cibot. She will know, and open the door; but tap on the window, so as to rouse nobody in the house.” “Right,” said Fraisier. “You will have a light, will you not. A candle will do.” At midnight poor Schmucke sat in his easy-chair, watching with a breaking heart that shrinking of the features that comes with death; Pons looked so worn out with the day’s exertions, that death seemed very near.