Part 66

“Gligy!” repeated Schmucke; “I do not understand.”

“Poor man! Well, never mind, I will come to you. Good-bye.”

“Goot-bye; komm again soon,” said Schmucke, dropping half-dead with weariness.

“Good-bye, mosieu,” said Mme. Sauvage, and there was something in her tone that struck Topinard.

“Oh, come, what is the matter now?” he asked, banteringly. “You are attitudinizing like a traitor in a melodrama.”

“Traitor yourself! Why have you come meddling here? Do you want to have a hand in the master’s affairs, and swindle him, eh?”

“Swindle him!... Your very humble servant!” Topinard answered with superb disdain. “I am only a poor super at a theatre, but I am something of an artist, and you may as well know that I never asked anything of anybody yet! Who asked anything of you? Who owes you anything? eh, old lady!”

“You are employed at a theatre, and your name is--?”

“Topinard, at your service.”

“Kind regards to all at home,” said La Sauvage, “and my compliments to your missus, if you are married, mister.... That was all I wanted to know.”

“Why, what is the matter, dear?” asked Mme. Cantinet, coming out.

“This, child--stop here and look after the dinner while I run round to speak to monsieur.”

“He is down below, talking with poor Mme. Cibot, that is crying her eyes out,” said Mme. Cantinet.

La Sauvage dashed down in such headlong haste that the stairs trembled beneath her tread.

“Monsieur!” she called, and drew him aside a few paces to point out Topinard.

Topinard was just going away, proud at heart to have made some return already to the man who had done him so many kindnesses. He had saved Pons’ friend from a trap, by a stratagem from that world behind the scenes in which every one has more or less ready wit. And within himself he vowed to protect a musician in his orchestra from future snares set for his simple sincerity.

“Do you see that little wretch?” said La Sauvage. “He is a kind of honest man that has a mind to poke his nose into M. Schmucke’s affairs.”

“Who is he?” asked Fraisier.

“Oh! he is a nobody.”

“In business there is no such thing as a nobody.”

“Oh, he is employed at the theatre,” said she; “his name is Topinard.”

“Good, Mme. Sauvage! Go on like this, and you shall have your tobacconist’s shop.”

And Fraisier resumed his conversation with Mme. Cibot.

“So I say, my dear client, that you have not played openly and above-board with me, and that one is not bound in any way to a partner who cheats.”

“And how have I cheated you?” asked La Cibot, hands on hips. “Do you think that you will frighten me with your sour looks and your frosty airs? You look about for bad reasons for breaking your promises, and you call yourself an honest man! Do you know what you are? You are a blackguard! Yes! yes! scratch your arm; but just pocket that--”

“No words, and keep your temper, dearie. Listen to me. You have been feathering your nest.... I found this catalogue this morning while we were getting ready for the funeral; it is all in M. Pons’ handwriting, and made out in duplicate. And as it chanced, my eyes fell on this--”

And opening the catalogue, he read:

“No. 7. Magnificent portrait painted on marble, by Sebastian del Piombo, in 1546. Sold by a family who had it removed from Terni Cathedral. The picture, which represents a Knight-Templar kneeling in prayer, used to hang above a tomb of the Rossi family with a companion portrait of a Bishop, afterwards purchased by an Englishman. The portrait might be attributed to Raphael, but for the date. This example is, to my mind, superior to the portrait of Baccio Bandinelli in the Musee; the latter is a little hard, while the Templar, being painted upon ‘lavagna,’ or slate, has preserved its freshness of coloring.”