Cousin Pons

Mlle. de Marville naturally asked for explanations of each new curiosity, and was initiated into the mysteries of art by Brunner.  Her exclamations were so childish, she seemed so pleased to have the value and beauty of the paintings, carvings, or bronzes pointed out to her, that the German gradually thawed and looked quite young again, and both were led on further than they intended at this (purely accidental) first meeting.

The private view lasted for three hours.  Brunner offered his arm when Cecile went downstairs.  As they descended slowly and discreetly, Cecile, still talking fine art, wondered that M. Brunner should admire her cousin’s gimcracks so much.

“Do you really think that these things that we have just seen are worth a great deal of money?”

“Mademoiselle, if your cousin would sell his collection, I would give eight hundred thousand francs for it this evening, and I should not make a bad bargain.  The pictures alone would fetch more than that at a public sale.”

“Since you say so, I believe it,” returned she; “the things took up so much of your attention that it must be so.”

“On! mademoiselle!” protested Brunner.  “For all answer to your reproach, I will ask your mother’s permission to call, so that I may have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“How clever she is, that ‘little girl’ of mine!” thought the Presidente, following closely upon her daughter’s heels.  Aloud she said, “With the greatest pleasure, monsieur.  I hope that you will come at dinner-time with our Cousin Pons.  The President will be delighted to make your acquaintance.—­Thank you, cousin.”

The lady squeezed Pons’ arm with deep meaning; she could not have said more if she had used the consecrated formula, “Let us swear an eternal friendship.”  The glance which accompanied that “Thank you, cousin,” was a caress.

When the young lady had been put into the carriage, and the jobbed brougham had disappeared down the Rue Charlot, Brunner talked bric-a-brac to Pons, and Pons talked marriage.

“Then you see no obstacle?” said Pons.

“Oh!” said Brunner, “she is an insignificant little thing, and the mother is a trifle prim.—­We shall see.”

“A handsome fortune one of these days. . . .  More than a million—­”

“Good-bye till Monday!” interrupted the millionaire.  “If you should care to sell your collection of pictures, I would give you five or six hundred thousand francs—­”

“Ah!” said Pons; he had no idea that he was so rich.  “But they are my great pleasure in life, and I could not bring myself to part with them.  I could only sell my collection to be delivered after my death.”

“Very well.  We shall see.”

“Here we have two affairs afoot!” said Pons; he was thinking only of the marriage.

Brunner shook hands and drove away in his splendid carriage.  Pons watched it out of sight.  He did not notice that Remonencq was smoking his pipe in the doorway.

That evening Mme. de Marville went to ask advice of her father-in-law, and found the whole Popinot family at the Camusots’ house.  It was only natural that a mother who had failed to capture an eldest son should be tempted to take her little revenge; so Mme. de Marville threw out hints of the splendid marriage that her Cecile was about to make.  —­“Whom can Cecile be going to marry?” was the question upon all lips.  And Cecile’s mother, without suspecting that she was betraying her secret, let fall words and whispered confidences, afterwards supplemented by Mme. Berthier, till gossip circulating in the bourgeois empyrean where Pons accomplished his gastronomical evolutions took something like the following form: 

“Cecile de Marville is engaged to be married to a young German, a banker from philanthropic motives, for he has four millions; he is like a hero in a novel, a perfect Werther, charming and kind-hearted.  He has sown his wild oats, and he is distractedly in love with Cecile; it is a case of love at first sight; and so much the more certain, since Cecile had all Pons’ paintings of Madonnas for rivals,” and so forth and so forth.

Two or three of the set came to call on the Presidente, ostensibly to congratulate, but really to find out whether or not the marvelous tale were true.  For their benefit Mme. de Marville executed the following admirable variations on the theme of son-in-law which mothers may consult, as people used to refer to the Complete Letter Writer.

“A marriage is not an accomplished fact,” she told Mme. Chiffreville, “until you have been in the mayor’s office and the church.  We have only come as far as a personal interview; so I count upon your friendship to say nothing of our hopes.”

“You are very fortunate, madame; marriages are so difficult to arrange in these days.”

“What can one do?  It was chance; but marriages are often made in that way.”

“Ah! well.  So you are going to marry Cecile?” said Mme. Cardot.

“Yes,” said Cecile’s mother, fully understanding the meaning of the “so.”  “We were very particular, or Cecile would have been established before this.  But now we have found everything we wish:  money, good temper, good character, and good looks; and my sweet little girl certainly deserves nothing less.  M. Brunner is a charming young man, most distinguished; he is fond of luxury, he knows life; he is wild about Cecile, he loves her sincerely; and in spite of his three or four millions, Cecile is going to accept him.—­We had not looked so high for her; still, store is no sore.”

“It was not so much the fortune as the affection inspired by my daughter which decided us,” the Presidente told Mme. Lebas.  “M.  Brunner is in such a hurry that he wants the marriage to take place with the least possible delay.”

“Is he a foreigner?”

“Yes, madame; but I am very fortunate, I confess.  No, I shall not have a son-in-law, but a son.  M. Brunner’s delicacy has quite won our hearts.  No one would imagine how anxious he was to marry under the dotal system.  It is a great security for families.  He is going to invest twelve hundred thousand francs in grazing land, which will be added to Marville some day.”

More variations followed on the morrow.  For instance—­M.  Brunner was a great lord, doing everything in lordly fashion; he did not haggle.  If M. de Marville could obtain letters of naturalization, qualifying M. Brunner for an office under Government (and the Home Secretary surely could strain a point for M. de Marville), his son-in-law would be a peer of France.  Nobody knew how much money M. Brunner possessed; “he had the finest horses and the smartest carriages in Paris!” and so on and so on.

From the pleasure with which the Camusots published their hopes, it was pretty clear that this triumph was unexpected.

Immediately after the interview in Pons’ museum, M. de Marville, at his wife’s instance, begged the Home Secretary, his chief, and the attorney for the crown to dine with him on the occasion of the introduction of this phoenix of a son-in-law.

The three great personages accepted the invitation, albeit it was given on short notice; they all saw the part that they were to play in the family politics, and readily came to the father’s support.  In France we are usually pretty ready to assist the mother of marriageable daughters to hook an eligible son-in-law.  The Count and Countess Popinot likewise lent their presence to complete the splendor of the occasion, although they thought the invitation in questionable taste.

There were eleven in all.  Cecile’s grandfather, old Camusot, came, of course, with his wife to a family reunion purposely arranged to elicit a proposal from M. Brunner.

The Camusot de Marvilles had given out that the guest of the evening was one of the richest capitalists in Germany, a man of taste (he was in love with “the little girl”), a future rival of the Nucingens, Kellers, du Tillets, and their like.

“It is our day,” said the Presidente with elaborate simplicity, when she had named her guests one by one for the German whom she already regarded as her son-in-law.  “We have only a few intimate friends —­first, my husband’s father, who, as you know, is sure to be raised to the peerage; M. le Comte and Mme. la Comtesse Popinot, whose son was not thought rich enough for Cecile; the Home Secretary; our First President; our attorney for the crown; our personal friends, in short.  —­We shall be obliged to dine rather late to-night, because the Chamber is sitting, and people cannot get away before six.”

Brunner looked significantly at Pons, and Pons rubbed his hands as if to say, “Our friends, you see! My friends!”

Mme. de Marville, as a clever tactician, had something very particular to say to her cousin, that Cecile and her Werther might be left together for a moment.  Cecile chattered away volubly, and contrived that Frederic should catch sight of a German dictionary, a German grammar, and a volume of Goethe hidden away in a place where he was likely to find them.

“Ah! are you learning German?” asked Brunner, flushing red.

(For laying traps of this kind the Frenchwoman has not her match!)

“Oh! how naughty you are!” she cried; “it is too bad of you, monsieur, to explore my hiding-places like this.  I want to read Goethe in the original,” she added; “I have been learning German for two years.”

“Then the grammar must be very difficult to learn, for scarcely ten pages have been cut—­” Brunner remarked with much candor.

Cecile, abashed, turned away to hide her blushes.  A German cannot resist a display of this kind; Brunner caught Cecile’s hand, made her turn, and watched her confusion under his gaze, after the manner of the heroes of the novels of Auguste Lafontaine of chaste memory.

“You are adorable,” said he.

Cecile’s petulant gesture replied, “So are you—­who could help liking you?”

“It is all right, mamma,” she whispered to her parent, who came up at that moment with Pons.

The sight of a family party on these occasions is not to be described.  Everybody was well satisfied to see a mother put her hand on an eligible son-in-law.  Compliments, double-barreled and double-charged, were paid to Brunner (who pretended to understand nothing); to Cecile, on whom nothing was lost; and to the Presidente, who fished for them.  Pons heard the blood singing in his ears, the light of all the blazing gas-jets of the theatre footlights seemed to be dazzling his eyes, when Cecile, in a low voice and with the most ingenious circumspection, spoke of her father’s plan of the annuity of twelve hundred francs.  The old artist positively declined the offer, bringing forward the value of his fortune in furniture, only now made known to him by Brunner.

The Home Secretary, the First President, the attorney for the crown, the Popinots, and those who had other engagements, all went; and before long no one was left except M. Camusot senior, and Cardot the old notary, and his assistant and son-in-law Berthier.  Pons, worthy soul, looking round and seeing no one but the family, blundered out a speech of thanks to the President and his wife for the proposal which Cecile had just made to him.  So it is with those who are guided by their feelings; they act upon impulse.  Brunner, hearing of an annuity offered in this way, thought that it had very much the look of a commission paid to Pons; he made an Israelite’s return upon himself, his attitude told of more than cool calculation.

Meanwhile Pons was saying to his astonished relations, “My collection or its value will, in any case, go to your family, whether I come to terms with our friend Brunner or keep it.”  The Camusots were amazed to hear that Pons was so rich.

Brunner, watching, saw how all these ignorant people looked favorably upon a man once believed to be poor so soon as they knew that he had great possessions.  He had seen, too, already that Cecile was spoiled by her father and mother; he amused himself, therefore, by astonishing the good bourgeois.

“I was telling mademoiselle,” said he, “that M. Pons’ pictures were worth that sum to me; but the prices of works of art have risen so much of late, that no one can tell how much the collection might sell for at public auction.  The sixty pictures might fetch a million francs; several that I saw the other day were worth fifty thousand apiece.”

“It is a fine thing to be your heir!” remarked old Cardot, looking at Pons.

“My heir is my Cousin Cecile here,” answered Pons, insisting on the relationship.  There was a flutter of admiration at this.

“She will be a very rich heiress,” laughed old Cardot, as he took his departure.

Camusot senior, the President and his wife, Cecile, Brunner, Berthier, and Pons were now left together; for it was assumed that the formal demand for Cecile’s hand was about to be made.  No sooner was Cardot gone, indeed, than Brunner began with an inquiry which augured well.

“I think I understood,” he said, turning to Mme. de Marville, “that mademoiselle is your only daughter.”

“Certainly,” the lady said proudly.

“Nobody will make any difficulties,” Pons, good soul, put in by way of encouraging Brunner to bring out his proposal.

But Brunner grew thoughtful, and an ominous silence brought on a coolness of the strangest kind.  The Presidente might have admitted that her “little girl” was subject to epileptic fits.  The President, thinking that Cecile ought not to be present, signed to her to go.  She went.  Still Brunner said nothing.  They all began to look at one another.  The situation was growing awkward.

Camusot senior, a man of experience, took the German to Mme. de Marville’s room, ostensibly to show him Pons’ fan.  He saw that some difficulty had arisen, and signed to the rest to leave him alone with Cecile’s suitor-designate.

“Here is the masterpiece,” said Camusot, opening out the fan.

Brunner took it in his hand and looked at it.  “It is worth five thousand francs,” he said after a moment.

“Did you not come here, sir, to ask for my granddaughter?” inquired the future peer of France.

“Yes, sir,” said Brunner; “and I beg you to believe that no possible marriage could be more flattering to my vanity.  I shall never find any one more charming nor more amiable, nor a young lady who answers to my ideas like Mlle. Cecile; but—­”

“Oh, no buts!” old Camusot broke in; “or let us have the translation of your ‘buts’ at once, my dear sir.”

“I am very glad, sir, that the matter has gone no further on either side,” Brunner answered gravely.  “I had no idea that Mlle. Cecile was an only daughter.  Anybody else would consider this an advantage; but to me, believe me, it is an insurmountable obstacle to—­”

“What, sir!” cried Camusot, amazed beyond measure.  “Do you find a positive drawback in an immense advantage?  Your conduct is really extraordinary; I should very much like to hear the explanation of it.”

“I came here this evening, sir,” returned the German phlegmatically, “intending to ask M. le President for his daughter’s hand.  It was my desire to give Mlle. Cecile a brilliant future by offering her so much of my fortune as she would consent to accept.  But an only daughter is a child whose will is law to indulgent parents, who has never been contradicted.  I have had the opportunity of observing this in many families, where parents worship divinities of this kind.  And your granddaughter is not only the idol of the house, but Mme. la Presidente . . . you know what I mean.  I have seen my father’s house turned into a hell, sir, from this very cause.  My stepmother, the source of all my misfortunes, an only daughter, idolized by her parents, the most charming betrothed imaginable, after marriage became a fiend incarnate.  I do not doubt that Mlle. Cecile is an exception to the rule; but I am not a young man, I am forty years old, and the difference between our ages entails difficulties which would put it out of my power to make the young lady happy, when Mme. la Presidente always carried out her daughter’s every wish and listened to her as if Mademoiselle was an oracle.  What right have I to expect Mlle. Cecile to change her habits and ideas?  Instead of a father and mother who indulge her every whim, she would find an egotistic man of forty; if she should resist, the man of forty would have the worst of it.  So, as an honest man—­I withdraw.  If there should be any need to explain my visit here, I desire to be entirely sacrificed—­”

“If these are your motives, sir,” said the future peer of France, “however singular they may be, they are plausible—­”

“Do not call my sincerity in question, sir,” Brunner interrupted quickly.  “If you know of a penniless girl, one of a large family, well brought up but without fortune, as happens very often in France; and if her character offers me security, I will marry her.”

A pause followed; Frederic Brunner left Cecile’s grandfather and politely took leave of his host and hostess.  When he was gone, Cecile appeared, a living commentary upon her Werther’s leave-taking; she was ghastly pale.  She had hidden in her mother’s wardrobe and overheard the whole conversation.

“Refused! . . .” she said in a low voice for her mother’s ear.

“And why?” asked the Presidente, fixing her eyes upon her embarrassed father-in-law.

“Upon the fine pretext that an only daughter is a spoilt child,” replied that gentleman.  “And he is not altogether wrong there,” he added, seizing an opportunity of putting the blame on the daughter-in-law, who had worried him not a little for twenty years.

“It will kill my child!” cried the Presidente, “and it is your doing!” she exclaimed, addressing Pons, as she supported her fainting daughter, for Cecile thought well to make good her mother’s words by sinking into her arms.  The President and his wife carried Cecile to an easy-chair, where she swooned outright.  The grandfather rang for the servants.

“It is a plot of his weaving; I see it all now,” said the infuriated mother.

Pons sprang up as if the trump of doom were sounding in his ears.

“Yes!” said the lady, her eyes like two springs of green bile, “this gentleman wished to repay a harmless joke by an insult.  Who will believe that that German was right in his mind?  He is either an accomplice in a wicked scheme of revenge, or he is crazy.  I hope, M. Pons, that in future you will spare us the annoyance of seeing you in the house where you have tried to bring shame and dishonor.”

Pons stood like a statue, with his eyes fixed on the pattern of the carpet.

“Well!  Are you still here, monster of ingratitude?” cried she, turning round on Pons, who was twirling his thumbs.—­“Your master and I are never at home, remember, if this gentleman calls,” she continued, turning to the servants.—­“Jean, go for the doctor; and bring hartshorn, Madeleine.”

In the Presidente’s eyes, the reason given by Brunner was simply an excuse, there was something else behind; but, at the same time, the fact that the marriage was broken off was only the more certain.  A woman’s mind works swiftly in great crises, and Mme. de Marville had hit at once upon the one method of repairing the check.  She chose to look upon it as a scheme of revenge.  This notion of ascribing a fiendish scheme to Pons satisfied family honor.  Faithful to her dislike of the cousin, she treated a feminine suspicion as a fact.  Women, generally speaking, hold a creed peculiar to themselves, a code of their own; to them anything which serves their interests or their passions is true.  The Presidente went a good deal further.  In the course of the evening she talked the President into her belief, and next morning found the magistrate convinced of his cousin’s culpability.

Every one, no doubt, will condemn the lady’s horrible conduct; but what mother in Mme. Camusot’s position will not do the same?  Put the choice between her own daughter and an alien, she will prefer to sacrifice the honor of the latter.  There are many ways of doing this, but the end in view is the same.

The old musician fled down the staircase in haste; but he went slowly along the boulevards to his theatre, he turned in mechanically at the door, and mechanically he took his place and conducted the orchestra.  In the interval he gave such random answers to Schmucke’s questions, that his old friend dissembled his fear that Pons’ mind had given way.  To so childlike a nature, the recent scene took the proportions of a catastrophe.  He had meant to make every one happy, and he had aroused a terrible slumbering feeling of hate; everything had been turned topsy-turvy.  He had at last seen mortal hate in the Presidente’s eyes, tones, and gesture.

On the morrow, Mme. Camusot de Marville made a great resolution; the President likewise sanctioned the step now forced upon them by circumstances.  It was determined that the estate of Marville should be settled upon Cecile at the time of her marriage, as well as the house in the Rue de Hanovre and a hundred thousand francs.  In the course of the morning, the Presidente went to call upon the Comtesse Popinot; for she saw plainly that nothing but a settled marriage could enable them to recover after such a check.  To the Comtesse Popinot she told the shocking story of Pons’ revenge, Pons’ hideous hoax.  It all seemed probable enough when it came out that the marriage had been broken off simply on the pretext that Cecile was an only daughter.  The Presidente next dwelt artfully upon the advantage of adding “de Marville” to the name of Popinot; and the immense dowry.  At the present price fetched by land in Normandy, at two per cent, the property represented nine hundred thousand francs, and the house in the Rue de Hanovre about two hundred and fifty thousand.  No reasonable family could refuse such an alliance.  The Comte and Comtesse Popinot accepted; and as they were now touched by the honor of the family which they were about to enter, they promised to help explain away yesterday evening’s mishap.

And now in the house of the elder Camusot, before the very persons who had heard Mme. de Marville singing Frederic Brunner’s praises but a few days ago, that lady, to whom nobody ventured to speak on the topic, plunged courageously into explanations.

“Really, nowadays” (she said), “one could not be too careful if a marriage was in question, especially if one had to do with foreigners.”

“And why, madame?”

“What has happened to you?” asked Mme. Chiffreville.

“Do you not know about our adventure with that Brunner, who had the audacity to aspire to marry Cecile?  His father was a German that kept a wine-shop, and his uncle is a dealer in rabbit-skins!”

“Is it possible?  So clear-sighted as you are! . . .” murmured a lady.

“These adventurers are so cunning.  But we found out everything through Berthier.  His friend is a beggar that plays the flute.  He is friendly with a person who lets furnished lodgings in the Rue du Mail and some tailor or other. . . .  We found out that he had led a most disreputable life, and no amount of fortune would be enough for a scamp that has run through his mother’s property.”

“Why, Mlle. de Marville would have been wretched!” said Mme. Berthier.

“How did he come to your house?” asked old Mme. Lebas.

“It was M. Pons.  Out of revenge, he introduced this fine gentleman to us, to make us ridiculous. . . .  This Brunner (it is the same name as Fontaine in French)—­this Brunner, that was made out to be such a grandee, has poor enough health, he is bald, and his teeth are bad.  The first sight of him was enough for me; I distrusted him from the first.”

“But how about the great fortune that you spoke of?” a young married woman asked shyly.

“The fortune was not nearly so large as they said.  These tailors and the landlord and he all scraped the money together among them, and put all their savings into this bank that they are starting.  What is a bank for those that begin in these days?  Simply a license to ruin themselves.  A banker’s wife may lie down at night a millionaire and wake up in the morning with nothing but her settlement.  At first word, at the very first sight of him, we made up our minds about this gentleman—­he is not one of us.  You can tell by his gloves, by his waistcoat, that he is a working man, the son of a man that kept a pot-house somewhere in Germany; he has not the instincts of a gentleman; he drinks beer, and he smokes—­smokes? ah! madame, twenty-five pipes a day! . . .  What would have become of poor Lili? . . .  It makes me shudder even now to think of it.  God has indeed preserved us!  And besides, Cecile never liked him. . . .  Who would have expected such a trick from a relative, an old friend of the house that had dined with us twice a week for twenty years?  We have loaded him with benefits, and he played his game so well, that he said Cecile was his heir before the Keeper of the Seals and the Attorney General and the Home Secretary! . . .  That Brunner and M. Pons had their story ready, and each of them said that the other was worth millions! . . .  No, I do assure you, all of you would have been taken in by an artist’s hoax like that.”

In a few weeks’ time, the united forces of the Camusot and Popinot families gained an easy victory in the world, for nobody undertook to defend the unfortunate Pons, that parasite, that curmudgeon, that skinflint, that smooth-faced humbug, on whom everybody heaped scorn; he was a viper cherished in the bosom of the family, he had not his match for spite, he was a dangerous mountebank whom nobody ought to mention.

About a month after the perfidious Werther’s withdrawal, poor Pons left his bed for the first time after an attack of nervous fever, and walked along the sunny side of the street leaning on Schmucke’s arm.  Nobody in the Boulevard du Temple laughed at the “pair of nutcrackers,” for one of the old men looked so shattered, and the other so touchingly careful of his invalid friend.  By the time that they reached the Boulevard Poissonniere, a little color came back to Pons’ face; he was breathing the air of the boulevards, he felt the vitalizing power of the atmosphere of the crowded street, the life-giving property of the air that is noticeable in quarters where human life abounds; in the filthy Roman Ghetto, for instance, with its swarming Jewish population, where malaria is unknown.  Perhaps, too, the sight of the streets, the great spectacle of Paris, the daily pleasure of his life, did the invalid good.  They walked on side by side, though Pons now and again left his friend to look at the shop windows.  Opposite the Theatre des Varietes he saw Count Popinot, and went up to him very respectfully, for of all men Pons esteemed and venerated the ex-Minister.

The peer of France answered him severely: 

“I am at a loss to understand, sir, how you can have no more tact than to speak to a near connection of a family whom you tried to brand with shame and ridicule by a trick which no one but an artist could devise.  Understand this, sir, that from to-day we must be complete strangers to each other.  Mme. la Comtesse Popinot, like every one else, feels indignant at your behavior to the Marvilles.”

And Count Popinot passed on, leaving Pons thunderstruck.  Passion, justice, policy, and great social forces never take into account the condition of the human creature whom they strike down.  The statesman, driven by family considerations to crush Pons, did not so much as see the physical weakness of his redoubtable enemy.

“Vat is it, mine boor friend?” exclaimed Schmucke, seeing how white Pons had grown.

“It is a fresh stab in the heart,” Pons replied, leaning heavily on Schmucke’s arm.  “I think that no one, save God in heaven, can have any right to do good, and that is why all those who meddle in His work are so cruelly punished.”

The old artist’s sarcasm was uttered with a supreme effort; he was trying, excellent creature, to quiet the dismay visible in Schmucke’s face.

“So I dink,” Schmucke replied simply.

Pons could not understand it.  Neither the Camusots nor the Popinots had sent him notice of Cecile’s wedding.

On the Boulevard des Italiens Pons saw M. Cardot coming towards them.  Warned by Count Popinot’s allocution, Pons was very careful not to accost the old acquaintance with whom he had dined once a fortnight for the last year; he lifted his hat, but the other, mayor and deputy of Paris, threw him an indignant glance and went by.  Pons turned to Schmucke.

“Do go and ask him what it is that they all have against me,” he said to the friend who knew all the details of the catastrophe that Pons could tell him.

“Mennseir,” Schmucke began diplomatically, “mine friend Bons is chust recofering from an illness; you haf no doubt fail to rekognize him?”

“Not in the least.”

“But mit vat kann you rebroach him?”

“You have a monster of ingratitude for a friend, sir; if he is still alive, it is because nothing kills ill weeds.  People do well to mistrust artists; they are as mischievous and spiteful as monkeys.  This friend of yours tried to dishonor his own family, and to blight a young girl’s character, in revenge for a harmless joke.  I wish to have nothing to do with him; I shall do my best to forget that I have known him, or that such a man exists.  All the members of his family and my own share the wish, sir, so do all the persons who once did the said Pons the honor of receiving him.”

“Boot, mennseir, you are a reasonaple mann; gif you vill bermit me, I shall exblain die affair—­”

“You are quite at liberty to remain his friend, sir, if you are minded that way,” returned Cardot, “but you need go no further; for I must give you warning that in my opinion those who try to excuse or defend his conduct are just as much to blame.”

“To chustify it?”

“Yes, for his conduct can neither be justified nor qualified.”  And with that word, the deputy for the Seine went his way; he would not hear another syllable.

“I have two powers in the State against me,” smiled poor Pons, when Schmucke had repeated these savage speeches.

“Eferpody is against us,” Schmucke answered dolorously.  “Let us go avay pefore we shall meed oder fools.”

Never before in the course of a truly ovine life had Schmucke uttered such words as these.  Never before had his almost divine meekness been ruffled.  He had smiled childlike on all the mischances that befell him, but he could not look and see his sublime Pons maltreated; his Pons, his unknown Aristides, the genius resigned to his lot, the nature that knew no bitterness, the treasury of kindness, the heart of gold! . . .  Alceste’s indignation filled Schmucke’s soul—­he was moved to call Pons’ amphitryons “fools.”  For his pacific nature that impulse equaled the wrath of Roland.

With wise foresight, Schmucke turned to go home by the way of the Boulevard du Temple, Pons passively submitting like a fallen fighter, heedless of blows; but chance ordered that he should know that all his world was against him.  The House of Peers, the Chamber of Deputies, strangers and the family, the strong, the weak, and the innocent, all combined to send down the avalanche.

In the Boulevard Poissonniere, Pons caught sight of that very M. Cardot’s daughter, who, young as she was, had learned to be charitable to others through trouble of her own.  Her husband knew a secret by which he kept her in bondage.  She was the only one among Pons’ hostesses whom he called by her Christian name; he addressed Mme. Berthier as “Felicie,” and he thought that she understood him.  The gentle creature seemed to be distressed by the sight of Cousin Pons, as he was called (though he was in no way related to the family of the second wife of a cousin by marriage).  There was no help for it, however; Felicie Berthier stopped to speak to the invalid.

“I did not think you were cruel, cousin,” she said; “but if even a quarter of all that I hear of you is true, you are very false. . . .  Oh! do not justify yourself,” she added quickly, seeing Pons’ significant gesture, “it is useless, for two reasons.  In the first place, I have no right to accuse or judge or condemn anybody, for I myself know so well how much may be said for those who seem to be most guilty; secondly, your explanation would do no good.  M. Berthier drew up the marriage contract for Mlle. de Marville and the Vicomte Popinot; he is so exasperated, that if he knew that I had so much as spoken one word to you, one word for the last time, he would scold me.  Everybody is against you.”

“So it seems indeed, madame,” Pons said, his voice shaking as he lifted his hat respectfully.

Painfully he made his way back to the Rue de Normandie.  The old German knew from the heavy weight on his arm that his friend was struggling bravely against failing physical strength.  That third encounter was like the verdict of the Lamb at the foot of the throne of God; and the anger of the Angel of the Poor, the symbol of the Peoples, is the last word of Heaven.  They reached home without another word.

There are moments in our lives when the sense that our friend is near is all that we can bear.  Our wounds smart under the consoling words that only reveal the depths of pain.  The old pianist, you see, possessed a genius for friendship, the tact of those who, having suffered much, knew the customs of suffering.

Pons was never to take a walk again.  From one illness he fell into another.  He was of a sanguine-bilious temperament, the bile passed into his blood, and a violent liver attack was the result.  He had never known a day’s illness in his life till a month ago; he had never consulted a doctor; so La Cibot, with almost motherly care and intentions at first of the very best, called in “the doctor of the quarter.”

In every quarter of Paris there is a doctor whose name and address are only known to the working classes, to the little tradespeople and the porters, and in consequence he is called “the doctor of the quarter.”  He undertakes confinement cases, he lets blood, he is in the medical profession pretty much what the “general servant” of the advertising column is in the scale of domestic service.  He must perforce be kind to the poor, and tolerably expert by reason of much practice, and he is generally popular.  Dr. Poulain, called in by Mme. Cibot, gave an inattentive ear to the old musician’s complainings.  Pons groaned out that his skin itched; he had scratched himself all night long, till he could scarcely feel.  The look of his eyes, with the yellow circles about them, corroborated the symptoms.

“Had you some violent shock a couple of days ago?” the doctor asked the patient.

“Yes, alas!”

“You have the same complaint that this gentleman was threatened with,” said Dr. Poulain, looking at Schmucke as he spoke; “it is an attack of jaundice, but you will soon get over it,” he added, as he wrote a prescription.

But in spite of that comfortable phrase, the doctor’s eyes had told another tale as he looked professionally at the patient; and the death-sentence, though hidden under stereotyped compassion, can always be read by those who wish to know the truth.  Mme. Cibot gave a spy’s glance at the doctor, and read his thought; his bedside manner did not deceive her; she followed him out of the room.

“Do you think he will get over it?” asked Mme. Cibot, at the stairhead.

“My dear Mme. Cibot, your lodger is a dead man; not because of the bile in the system, but because his vitality is low.  Still, with great care, your patient may pull through.  Somebody ought to take him away for a change—­”

“How is he to go?” asked Mme. Cibot.  “He has nothing to live upon but his salary; his friend has just a little money from some great ladies, very charitable ladies, in return for his services, it seems.  They are two children.  I have looked after them for nine years.”

“I spend my life watching people die, not of their disease, but of another bad and incurable complaint—­the want of money,” said the doctor.  “How often it happens that so far from taking a fee, I am obliged to leave a five-franc piece on the mantel-shelf when I go—­”

“Poor, dear M. Poulain!” cried Mme. Cibot.  “Ah, if you hadn’t only the hundred thousand livres a year, what some stingy folks has in the quarter (regular devils from hell they are), you would be like Providence on earth.”

Dr. Poulain had made the little practice, by which he made a bare subsistence, chiefly by winning the esteem of the porters’ lodges in his district.  So he raised his eyes to heaven and thanked Mme. Cibot with a solemn face worthy of Tartuffe.

“Then you think that with careful nursing our dear patient will get better, my dear M. Poulain?”

“Yes, if this shock has not been too much for him.”

“Poor man! who can have vexed him?  There isn’t nobody like him on earth except his friend M. Schmucke.  I will find out what is the matter, and I will undertake to give them that upset my gentleman a hauling over the coals—­”

“Look here, my dear Mme. Cibot,” said the doctor as they stood in the gateway, “one of the principal symptoms of his complaint is great irritability; and as it is hardly to be supposed that he can afford a nurse, the task of nursing him will fall to you.  So—­”

“Are you talking of Mouchieu Ponsh?” asked the marine store-dealer.  He was sitting smoking on the curb-post in the gateway, and now he rose to join in the conversation.

“Yes, Daddy Remonencq.”

“All right,” said Remonencq, “ash to moneysh, he ish better off than Mouchieu Monishtrol and the big men in the curioshity line.  I know enough in the art line to tell you thish—­the dear man has treasursh!” he spoke with a broad Auvergne dialect.

“Look here, I thought you were laughing at me the other day when my gentlemen were out and I showed you the old rubbish upstairs,” said Mme. Cibot.

In Paris, where walls have ears, where doors have tongues, and window bars have eyes, there are few things more dangerous than the practice of standing to chat in a gateway.  Partings are like postscripts to a letter—­indiscreet utterances that do as much mischief to the speaker as to those who overhear them.  A single instance will be sufficient as a parallel to an event in this history.