makes you sorry to see it.—­Now, for my own part, I should have thought that you had had mistresses by the dozen—­dancers, actresses, and duchesses, for you went out so much. . . .  When you went out, I used to say to Cibot, ’Look! there is M. Pons going a-gallivanting,’ on my word, I did, I was so sure that women ran after you.  Heaven made you for love. . . .  Why, my dear sir, I found that out the first day that you dined at home, and you were so touched with M. Schmucke’s pleasure.  And next day M. Schmucke kept saying to me, ‘Montame Zipod, he haf tined hier,’ with the tears in his eyes, till I cried along with him like a fool, as I am.  And how sad he looked when you took to gadding abroad again and dining out!  Poor man, you never saw any one so disconsolate!  Ah! you are quite right to leave everything to him.  Dear worthy man, why he is as good as a family to you, he is!  Do not forget him; for if you do, God will not receive you into his Paradise, for those that have been ungrateful to their friends and left them no rentes will not go to heaven.”

In vain Pons tried to put in a word; La Cibot talked as the wind blows.  Means of arresting steam-engines have been invented, but it would tax a mechanician’s genius to discover any plan for stopping a portress’ tongue.

“I know what you mean,” continued she.  “But it does not kill you, my dear gentleman, to make a will when you are out of health; and in your place I might not leave that poor dear alone, for fear that something might happen; he is like God Almighty’s lamb, he knows nothing about nothing, and I should not like him to be at the mercy of those sharks of lawyers and a wretched pack of relations.  Let us see now, has one of them come here to see you in twenty years?  And would you leave your property to them?  Do you know, they say that all these things here are worth something.”

“Why, yes,” said Pons.

“Remonencq, who deals in pictures, and knows that you are an amateur, says that he would be quite ready to pay you an annuity of thirty thousand francs so long as you live, to have the pictures afterwards. . . .  There is a change!  If I were you, I should take it.  Why, I thought he said it for a joke when he told me that.  You ought to let M. Schmucke know the value of all those things, for he is a man that could be cheated like a child.  He has not the slightest idea of the value of these fine things that you have!  He so little suspects it, that he would give them away for a morsel of bread if he did not keep them all his life for love of you, always supposing that he lives after you, for he will die of your death.  But I am here; I will take his part against anybody and everybody! . . .  I and Cibot will defend him.”

“Dear Mme. Cibot!” said Pons, “what would have become of me if it had not been for you and Schmucke?” He felt touched by this horrible prattle; the feeling in it seemed to be ingenuous, as it usually is in the speech of the people.