“Well,” said Mme. Cibot, drawing Schmucke into the dining-room, “he just said this--that our dear, darling love lying ill there would die if he wasn’t carefully nursed; but I am here, in spite of all your brutality, for brutal you were, you that I thought so gentle. And you are one of that sort! Ah! now, you would not abuse a woman at your age, great blackguard--” “Placard? I? Vill you not oonderstand that I lof nopody but Bons?” “Well and good, you will let me alone, won’t you?” said she, smiling at Schmucke. “You had better; for if Cibot knew that anybody had attempted his honor, he would break every bone in his skin.” “Take crate care of him, dear Montame Zipod,” answered Schmucke, and he tried to take the portress’ hand. “Oh! look here now, _again_.” “Chust listen to me. You shall haf all dot I haf, gif ve safe him.” “Very well; I will go round to the chemist’s to get the things that are wanted; this illness is going to cost a lot, you see, sir, and what will you do?” “I shall vork; Bons shall be nursed like ein brince.” “So he shall, M. Schmucke; and look here, don’t you trouble about nothing. Cibot and I, between us, have saved a couple of thousand francs; they are yours; I have been spending money on you this long time, I have.” “Goot voman!” cried Schmucke, brushing the tears from his eyes. “Vat ein heart!” “Wipe your tears; they do me honor; this is my reward,” said La Cibot, melodramatically. “There isn’t no more disinterested creature on earth than me; but don’t you go into the room with tears in your eyes, or M. Pons will be thinking himself worse than he is.” Schmucke was touched by this delicate feeling. He took La Cibot’s hand and gave it a final squeeze. “Spare me!” cried the ex-oysterseller, leering at Schmucke. “Bons,” the good German said when he returned “Montame Zipod is an anchel; ‘tis an anchel dat brattles, but an anchel all der same.” “Do you think so? I have grown suspicious in the past month,” said the invalid, shaking his head. “After all I have been through, one comes to believe in nothing but God and my friend--” “Get bedder, and ve vill lif like kings, all tree of us,” exclaimed Schmucke. “Cibot!” panted the portress as she entered the lodge. “Oh, my dear, our fortune is made. My two gentlemen haven’t nobody to come after them, no natural children, no nothing, in short! Oh, I shall go round to Ma’am Fontaine’s and get her to tell my fortune on the cards, then we shall know how much we are going to have--” “Wife,” said the little tailor, “it’s ill counting on dead men’s shoes.”