“Why, I have come to ask news of M. Pons every morning, sir.” “Efery morning! boor Dobinard!” and Schmucke squeezed the man’s hand. “But they took me for a relation, no doubt, and did not like my visits at all. I told them that I belonged to the theatre and came to inquire after M. Pons; but it was no good. They saw through that dodge, they said. I asked to see the poor dear man, but they never would let me come upstairs.” “Dat apominable Zipod!” said Schmucke, squeezing Topinard’s horny hand to his heart. “He was the best of men, that good M. Pons. Every month he use to give me five francs.... He knew that I had three children and a wife. My wife has gone to the church.” “I shall difide mein pread mit you,” cried Schmucke, in his joy at finding at his side some one who loved Pons. “If this gentleman will take a corner of the pall, we shall have all four filled up,” said the master of the ceremonies. There had been no difficulty over persuading the agent for monuments. He took a corner the more readily when he was shown the handsome pair of gloves which, according to custom, was to be his property. “A quarter to eleven! We absolutely must go down. They are waiting for us at the church.” The six persons thus assembled went down the staircase. The cold-blooded lawyer remained a moment to speak to the two women on the landing. “Stop here, and let nobody come in,” he said, “especially if you wish to remain in charge, Mme. Cantinet. Aha! two francs a day, you know!” By a coincidence in nowise extraordinary in Paris, two hearses were waiting at the door, and two coffins standing under the archway; Cibot’s funeral and the solitary state in which Pons was lying was made even more striking in the street. Schmucke was the only mourner that followed Pons’ coffin; Schmucke, supported by one of the undertaker’s men, for he tottered at every step. From the Rue de Normandie to the Rue d’Orleans and the Church of Saint-Francois the two funerals went between a double row of curious onlookers for everything (as was said before) makes a sensation in the quarter. Every one remarked the splendor of the white funeral car, with a big embroidered P suspended on a hatchment, and the one solitary mourner behind it; while the cheap bier that came after it was followed by an immense crowd. Happily, Schmucke was so bewildered by the throng of idlers and the rows of heads in the windows, that he heard no remarks and only saw the faces through a mist of tears. “Oh, it is the nutcracker!” said one, “the musician, you know--” “Who can the pall-bearers be?” “Pooh! play-actors.” “I say, just look at poor old Cibot’s funeral. There is one worker the less. What a man! he could never get enough of work!” “He never went out.” “He never kept Saint Monday.” “How fond he was of his wife!” “Ah! There is an unhappy woman!” Remonencq walked behind his victim’s coffin. People condoled with him on the loss of his neighbor.