Part 53

“Of his wife. If he had stayed with me, he would be living now. Good-bye, dear old boy, I am talking of going off, because I can see that you will be walking about the boulevards in a week or two, hunting up pretty little curiosities again. You are not ill; I never saw your eyes look so bright.” And she went, fully convinced that her protege Garangeot would conduct the orchestra for good.

Every door stood ajar as she went downstairs. Every lodger, on tip-toe, watched the lady of the ballet pass on her way out. It was quite an event in the house.

Fraisier, like the bulldog that sets his teeth and never lets go, was on the spot. He stood beside La Cibot when Mlle. Brisetout passed under the gateway and asked for the door to be opened. Knowing that a will had been made, he had come to see how the land lay, for Maitre Trognon, notary, had refused to say a syllable--Fraisier’s questions were as fruitless as Mme. Cibot’s. Naturally the ballet-girl’s visit in extremis was not lost upon Fraisier; he vowed to himself that he would turn it to good account.

“My dear Mme. Cibot,” he began, “now is the critical moment for you.”

“Ah, yes... my poor Cibot!” said she. “When I think that he will not live to enjoy anything I may get--”

“It is a question of finding out whether M. Pons has left you anything at all; whether your name is mentioned or left out, in fact,” he interrupted. “I represent the next-of-kin, and to them you must look in any case. It is a holograph will, and consequently very easy to upset.--Do you know where our man has put it?”

“In a secret drawer in his bureau, and he has the key of it. He tied it to a corner of his handkerchief, and put it under his pillow. I saw it all.”

“Is the will sealed?”

“Yes, alas!”

“It is a criminal offence if you carry off a will and suppress it, but it is only a misdemeanor to look at it; and anyhow, what does it amount to? A peccadillo, and nobody will see you. Is your man a heavy sleeper?”

“Yes. But when you tried to see all the things and value them, he ought to have slept like a top, and yet he woke up. Still, I will see about it. I will take M. Schmucke’s place about four o’clock this morning; and if you care to come, you shall have the will in your hands for ten minutes.”

“Good. I will come up about four o’clock, and I will knock very softly--”

“Mlle Remonencq will take my place with Cibot. She will know, and open the door; but tap on the window, so as to rouse nobody in the house.”

“Right,” said Fraisier. “You will have a light, will you not. A candle will do.”

At midnight poor Schmucke sat in his easy-chair, watching with a breaking heart that shrinking of the features that comes with death; Pons looked so worn out with the day’s exertions, that death seemed very near.

Presently Pons spoke. “I have just enough strength, I think, to last till to-morrow night,” he said philosophically. “To-morrow night the death agony will begin; poor Schmucke! As soon as the notary and your two friends are gone, go for our good Abbe Duplanty, the curate of Saint-Francois. Good man, he does not know that I am ill, and I wish to take the holy sacrament to-morrow at noon.”

There was a long pause.

“God so willed it that life has not been as I dreamed,” Pons resumed. “I should so have loved wife and children and home.... To be loved by a very few in some corner--that was my whole ambition! Life is hard for every one; I have seen people who had all that I wanted so much and could not have, and yet they were not happy.... Then at the end of my life, God put untold comfort in my way, when He gave me such a friend.... And one thing I have not to reproach myself with--that I have not known your worth nor appreciated you, my good Schmucke.... I have loved you with my whole heart, with all the strength of love that is in me.... Do not cry, Schmucke; I shall say no more if you cry and it is so sweet to me to talk of ourselves to you.... If I had listened to you, I should not be dying. I should have left the world and broken off my habits, and then I should not have been wounded to death. And now, I want to think of no one but you at the last--”

“You are missdaken--”

“Do not contradict me--listen, dear friend.... You are as guileless and simple as a six-year-old child that has never left its mother; one honors you for it--it seems to me that God Himself must watch over such as you. But men are so wicked, that I ought to warn you beforehand... and then you will lose your generous trust, your saint-like belief in others, the bloom of a purity of soul that only belongs to genius or to hearts like yours.... In a little while you will see Mme. Cibot, who left the door ajar and watched us closely while M. Trognon was here--in a little while you will see her come for the will, as she believes it to be.... I expect the worthless creature will do her business this morning when she thinks you are asleep. Now, mind what I say, and carry out my instructions to the letter.... Are you listening?” asked the dying man.

But Schmucke was overcome with grief, his heart was throbbing painfully, his head fell back on the chair, he seemed to have lost consciousness.

“Yes,” he answered, “I can hear, but it is as if you vere doo huntert baces afay from me.... It seem to me dat I am going town into der grafe mit you,” said Schmucke, crushed with pain.

He went over to the bed, took one of Pons’ hands in both his own, and within himself put up a fervent prayer.

“What is that that you are mumbling in German?”

“I asked Gott dat He vould take us poth togedders to Himself!” Schmucke answered simply when he had finished his prayer.

Pons bent over--it was a great effort, for he was suffering intolerable pain; but he managed to reach Schmucke, and kissed him on the forehead, pouring out his soul, as it were, in benediction upon a nature that recalled the lamb that lies at the foot of the Throne of God.

“See here, listen, my good Schmucke, you must do as dying people tell you--”

“I am lisdening.”