And lifting his cane, he thrust it so adroitly that he gouged out Croniamantal's right eye. Croniamantal fell over backward, women threw themselves upon him and beat him. Tristouse jumped up and down with joy, while Paponat tried to calm her. But she went over and with the end of her umbrella stuck out Croniamantal's other eye, while he, seeing her in this last moment of sight, cried: "I confess my love for Tristouse Ballerinette, the divine poesy that consoles my soul." "Shut up, vermin!" cried the crowd of men, "there are ladies here." The women went away soon, and a man who was balancing a large knife on his open hand threw it in such a way that it landed right in the open mouth of Croniamantal. Other men did the same thing. The knives stuck in his belly, his chest, and soon there was nothing more on the ground than a corpse bristling with points like the husk of a chestnut. XVIII. APOTHEOSIS Croniamantal dead, Paponat brought Tristouse Ballerinette back to the hotel, where she relapsed into nervous fainting-spells. They were in a very old building and by chance Paponat discovered, wrapped up in cardboard, a bottle of water of the Queen of Hungary which dated from the 17th Century. This remedy worked rapidly. Tristouse recovered her senses and immediately went to the hospital to claim the body of Croniamantal which was turned over to her without delay. She arranged a decent burial for him and placed over his tomb a stone on which there was engraved the following epitaph: _Walk lightly and your silence keep, To leave untroubled his good sleep._ Then she went back to Paris with Paponat who soon left her for a mannikin of the Champs-Élysées. Tristouse did not regret him very long. She went into mourning for Croniamantal and climbed up to the Montmartre, to the Bird of Benin's who began to pay court to her, and after he had what he desired they began to talk of Croniamantal. "I ought to make a statue to him," said the Bird of Benin, "For I am not only a painter but also a sculptor." "That's right," said Tristouse, "we must raise a statue to him." "Where?" asked the Bird of Benin; "The government will not grant us any ground. Times are bad for poets." "So they say," replied Tristouse, "but perhaps it isn't true. What do you think of the Meudon woods?" "I thought of that, but I dared not say it. Let's go to the Meudon woods." "A statue of what?" asked Tristouse, "Marble? Bronze?" "No, that's old fashioned. I must model a profound statue out of nothing, like poetry and glory." "Bravo! Bravo!" cried Tristouse clapping her hands, "A statue out of nothing, empty, that's lovely, and when will you make it?" "Tomorrow, if you wish; we shall go and dine, pass the night together, and in the morning we shall go to the Meudon woods where I shall make this profound statue." * * *