Schmucke meanwhile went to Pons’ bedside with the tale.  Their factotum was in a frightful state.  “What shall we do without her?” they said, as they looked at each other; but Pons was so plainly the worse for his escapade, that Schmucke did not dare to scold him.

“Gonfounded pric-a-prac!  I would sooner purn dem dan loose mein friend!” he cried, when Pons told him of the cause of the accident.  “To suspect Montame Zipod, dot lend us her safings!  It is not goot; but it is der illness—­”

“Ah! what an illness!  I am not the same man, I can feel it,” said Pons.  “My dear Schmucke, if only you did not suffer through me!”

“Scold me,” Schmucke answered, “und leaf Montame Zipod in beace.”

As for Mme. Cibot, she soon recovered in Dr. Poulain’s hands; and her restoration, bordering on the miraculous, shed additional lustre on her name and fame in the Marais.  Pons attributed the success to the excellent constitution of the patient, who resumed her ministrations seven days later to the great satisfaction of her two gentlemen.  Her influence in their household and her tyranny was increased a hundred-fold by the accident.  In the course of a week, the two nutcrackers ran into debt; Mme. Cibot paid the outstanding amounts, and took the opportunity to obtain from Schmucke (how easily!) a receipt for two thousand francs, which she had lent, she said, to the friends.

“Oh, what a doctor M. Poulain is!” cried La Cibot, for Pons’ benefit.  “He will bring you through, my dear sir, for he pulled me out of my coffin!  Cibot, poor man, thought I was dead. . . .  Well, Dr. Poulain will have told you that while I was in bed I thought of nothing but you.  ‘God above,’ said I, ‘take me, and let my dear Mr. Pons live—­’”

“Poor dear Mme. Cibot, you all but crippled yourself for me.”

“Ah! but for Dr. Poulain I should have been put to bed with a shovel by now, as we shall all be one day.  Well, what must be, must, as the old actor said.  One must take things philosophically.  How did you get on without me?”

“Schmucke nursed me,” said the invalid; “but our poor money-box and our lessons have suffered.  I do not know how he managed.”

“Calm yourself, Bons,” exclaimed Schmucke; “ve haf in Zipod ein panker—­”

“Do not speak of it, my lamb.  You are our children, both of you,” cried La Cibot.  “Our savings will be well invested; you are safer than the Bank.  So long as we have a morsel of bread, half of it is yours.  It is not worth mentioning—­”

“Boor Montame Zipod!” said Schmucke, and he went.

Pons said nothing.

“Would you believe it, my cherub?” said La Cibot, as the sick man tossed uneasily, “in my agony—­for it was a near squeak for me—­the thing that worried me most was the thought that I must leave you alone, with no one to look after you, and my poor Cibot without a farthing. . . .  My savings are such a trifle, that I only mention them in connection with my death and Cibot, an angel that he is!  No.  He nursed me as if I had been a queen, he did, and cried like a calf over me! . . .  But I counted on you, upon my word.  I said to him, ’There, Cibot! my gentlemen will not let you starve—­’”