La Cibot’s eyes flashed fire.

“There, never mind,” said Elie Magus; “this Auvergnat seems to be too fond of you to mean to insult you.”

“How she would draw on the customers!” cried the Auvergnat.

Mme. Cibot softened at this.

“Be fair, sonnies,” quoth she, “and judge for yourselves how I am placed.  These ten years past I have been wearing my life out for these two old bachelors yonder, and neither or them has given me anything but words.  Remonencq will tell you that I feed them by contract, and lose twenty or thirty sous a day; all my savings have gone that way, by the soul of my mother (the only author of my days that I ever knew), this is as true as that I live, and that this is the light of day, and may my coffee poison me if I lie about a farthing.  Well, there is one up there that will die soon, eh? and he the richer of the two that I have treated like my own children.  Would you believe it, my dear sir, I have told him over and over again for days past that he is at death’s door (for Dr. Poulain has given him up), he could not say less about putting my name down in his will.  We shall only get our due by taking it, upon my word, as an honest woman, for as for trusting to the next-of-kin!—­No fear!  There! look you here, words don’t stink; it is a bad world!”

“That is true,” Elie Magus answered cunningly, “that is true; and it is just the like of us that are among the best,” he added, looking at Remonencq.

“Just let me be,” returned La Cibot; “I am not speaking of you.  ‘Pressing company is always accepted,’ as the old actor said.  I swear to you that the two gentlemen already owe me nearly three thousand francs; the little I have is gone by now in medicine and things on their account; and now suppose they refuse to recognize my advances?  I am so stupidly honest that I did not dare to say nothing to them about it.  Now, you that are in business, my dear sir, do you advise me to got to a lawyer?”

“A lawyer?” cried Remonencq; “you know more about it than all the lawyers put together—­”

Just at that moment a sound echoed in the great staircase, a sound as if some heavy body had fallen in the dining-room.

“Oh, goodness me!” exclaimed La Cibot; “it seems to me that monsieur has just taken a ticket for the ground floor.”

She pushed her fellow-conspirators out at the door, and while the pair descended the stairs with remarkable agility, she ran to the dining-room, and there beheld Pons, in his shirt, stretched out upon the tiles.  He had fainted.  She lifted him as if he had been a feather, carried him back to his room, laid him in bed, burned feathers under his nose, bathed his temples with eau-de-cologne, and at last brought him to consciousness.  When she saw his eyes unclose and life return, she stood over him, hands on hips.