“And it would not astonish me if he was!” cried La Cibot.  “Just imagine it!—­For these ten years past I have been money out of pocket for him, spending my savings on him, and he knows it, and yet he will not let me lie down to sleep on a legacy!—­No, sir! he will not.  He is obstinate, a regular mule he is.—­I have talked to him these ten days, and the cross-grained cur won’t stir no more than a sign-post.  He shuts his teeth and looks at me like—­The most that he would say was that he would recommend me to M. Schmucke.”

“Then he means to make his will in favor of this Schmucke?”

“Everything will go to him—­”

“Listen, my dear Mme. Cibot, if I am to arrive at any definite conclusions and think of a plan, I must know M. Schmucke.  I must see the property and have some talk with this Jew of whom you speak; and then, let me direct you—­”

“We shall see, M. Fraisier.”

“What is this?  ‘We shall see?’” repeated Fraisier, speaking in the voice natural to him, as he gave La Cibot a viperous glance.  “Am I your legal adviser or am I not, I say?  Let us know exactly where we stand.”

La Cibot felt that he read her thoughts.  A cold chill ran down her back.

“I have told you all I know,” she said.  She saw that she was at the tiger’s mercy.

“We attorneys are accustomed to treachery.  Just think carefully over your position; it is superb.—­If you follow my advice point by point, you will have thirty or forty thousand francs.  But there is a reverse side to this beautiful medal.  How if the Presidente comes to hear that M. Pons’ property is worth a million of francs, and that you mean to have a bit out of it?—­for there is always somebody ready to take that kind of errand—­” he added parenthetically.

This remark, and the little pause that came before and after it, sent another shudder through La Cibot.  She thought at once that Fraisier himself would probably undertake that office.

“And then, my dear client, in ten minutes old Pillerault is asked to dismiss you, and then on a couple of hours’ notice—­”

“What does that matter to me?” said La Cibot, rising to her feet like a Bellona; “I shall stay with the gentlemen as their housekeeper.”

“And then, a trap will be set for you, and some fine morning you and your husband will wake up in a prison cell, to be tried for your lives—­”

“I?” cried La Cibot, “I that have not a farthing that doesn’t belong to me? . . . I! . . . I!”

For five minutes she held forth, and Fraisier watched the great artist before him as she executed a concerto of self-praise.  He was quite untouched, and even amused by the performance.  His keen glances pricked La Cibot like stilettos; he chuckled inwardly, till his shrunken wig was shaking with laughter.  He was a Robespierre at an age when the Sylla of France was make couplets.

“And how? and why?  And on what pretext?” demanded she, when she had come to an end.