“Very well. You can be quiet, sir, and give yourself up to grief, when you have seen your deputy.” It was nearly two o’clock when M. Tabareau’s head-clerk, a young man who aimed at a bailiff’s career, modestly presented himself. Youth has wonderful privileges; no one is alarmed by youth. This young man Villemot by name, sat down by Schmucke’s side and waited his opportunity to speak. His diffidence touched Schmucke very much. “I am M. Tabareau’s head-clerk, sir,” he said; “he sent me here to take charge of your interests, and to superintend the funeral arrangements. Is this your wish?” “You cannot safe my life, I haf not long to lif; but you vill leaf me in beace!” “Oh! you shall not be disturbed,” said Villemot. “Ver’ goot. Vat must I do for dat?” “Sign this paper appointing M. Tabareau to act for you in all matters relating to the settlement of the affairs of the deceased.” “Goot! gif it to me,” said Schmucke, anxious only to sign it at once. “No, I must read it over to you first.” “Read it ofer.” Schmucke paid not the slightest attention to the reading of the power of attorney, but he set his name to it. The young clerk took Schmucke’s orders for the funeral, the interment, and the burial service; undertaking that he should not be troubled again in any way, nor asked for money. “I vould gif all dat I haf to be left in beace,” said the unhappy man. And once more he knelt beside the dead body of his friend. Fraisier had triumphed. Villemot and La Sauvage completed the circle which he had traced about Pons’ heir. There is no sorrow that sleep cannot overcome. Towards the end of the day La Sauvage, coming in, found Schmucke stretched asleep at the bed-foot. She carried him off, put him to bed, tucked him in maternally, and till the morning Schmucke slept. When he awoke, or rather when the truce was over and he again became conscious of his sorrows, Pons’ coffin lay under the gateway in such a state as a third-class funeral may claim, and Schmucke, seeking vainly for his friend, wandered from room to room, across vast spaces, as it seemed to him, empty of everything save hideous memories. La Sauvage took him in hand, much as a nurse manages a child; she made him take his breakfast before starting for the church; and while the poor sufferer forced himself to eat, she discovered, with lamentations worthy of Jeremiah, that he had not a black coat in his possession. La Cibot took entire charge of his wardrobe; since Pons fell ill, his apparel, like his dinner, had been reduced to the lowest terms--to a couple of coats and two pairs of trousers. “And you are going just as you are to M. Pons’ funeral? It is an unheard-of thing; the whole quarter will cry shame upon us!” “Und how vill you dat I go?” “Why, in mourning--” “Mourning!” “It is the proper thing.” “Der bropper ding!... Confound all dis stupid nonsense!” cried poor Schmucke, driven to the last degree of exasperation which a childlike soul can reach under stress of sorrow.