Much as she loved money, her sense of justice rebelled against Paragot's division of the takings--a third for Laripet, a third for Blanquette and a third for himself which he generously shared with me. Père Paragot used to sweep into his pockets every sou and Blanquette had to subsist on whatever he chose to allow for joint expenses. Her new position of independence was a subject for much inward pride, mingled however with a consciousness of her own unworthiness. Monsieur Laripet, yes; she would grant that he was entitled to the same as the Master; but herself--no. Was not the Master the great artist, and she but the clumsy strummer? Was he not also a man, with more requirements than she--tobacco, absinthe, brandy and the like? "A third is too much," she added. "If you argue," said he, "I will divide it in halves for Laripet and yourself, and I won't touch a penny." "That would be idiotic," said Blanquette. "It would be in keeping with life generally," he answered. "In a comic opera one thing is not more idiotic than another. Yes, Monsieur Laripet, we will give them _Funiculi, Funiculà_. I once drove in coffin nails to that tune in Verona. Now we will set people eating to it in Aix-les-Bains--we, Monsieur Laripet, you and I, who ought to be the petted minions of great capitals! It is a comic opera." "One has to get bread or one would starve," said Blanquette pursuing her argument. "And to get bread one must have money. If I had all the money you would not eat bread." "I should eat _brioches_," laughed Paragot quoting Marie Antoinette. "You always laugh at me, Master," said Blanquette wistfully. Paragot drew his bow across the strings. "There is nothing in this comical universe I don't laugh at, my little Blanquette," said he. "I am like good old Montaigne--I rather laugh than weep, because to laugh is the more dignified." Laripet struck a chord on the piano. Paragot joined in and played three bars. Then he stopped short. There was not the vestige of a laugh on his face. It was deadly white, and his eyes were those of a man who sees a ghost. The four bright happy beings, two ladies and two men who had just entered the garden and at whom his stare was directed, took no notice, but followed a bowing maître d'hôtel to a table that had been reserved for them. I sprang to the platform, on the edge of which I had been squatting at Blanquette's feet. "Are you ill, Master?" He started. "Ill? Of course not. Pardon, Monsieur Laripet. _Recommençons._" He plunged into the merry tune and fiddled with all his might, as if nothing had happened. But I saw his nostrils quivering and the sweat running down his face into his beard. CHAPTER VIII WHEN _Funiculi Funiculà_ was over he sat on the wooden chair provided for him and wiped his face. His hands shook. He beckoned me to come near. "Do I look too grotesque a mountebank Tomfool?" he asked in English.