“I do not know how yet.  I have not looked at the strong points of the case yet; I have been busy with the obstacles.  But the first thing to be done is to urge him to make a will; you cannot go wrong over that; and find out, first of all, how Pons means to leave his fortune; for if you were his heir—­”

“No, no; he does not like me.  Ah! if I had but known the value of his gimcracks, and if I had known what I know now about his amours, I should be easy in my mind this day—­”

“Keep on, in fact,” broke in Fraisier.  “Dying folk have queer fancies, my dear madame; they disappoint hopes many a time.  Let him make his will, and then we shall see.  And of all things, the property must be valued.  So I must see this Remonencq and the Jew; they will be very useful to us.  Put entire confidence in me, I am at your disposal.  When a client is a friend to me, I am his friend through thick and thin.  Friend or enemy, that is my character.”

“Very well,” said La Cibot, “I am yours entirely; and as for fees, M. Poulain—­”

“Let us say nothing about that,” said Fraisier.  “Think how you can keep Poulain at the bedside; he is one of the most upright and conscientious men I know; and, you see, we want some one there whom we can trust.  Poulain would do better than I; I have lost my character.”

“You look as if you had,” said La Cibot; “but, for my own part, I should trust you.”

“And you would do well.  Come to see me whenever anything happens, and —­there!—­you are an intelligent woman; all will go well.”

“Good-day, M. Fraisier.  I hope you will recover your health.  Your servant, sir.”

Fraisier went to the door with his client.  But this time it was he, and not La Cibot, who was struck with an idea on the threshold.

“If you could persuade M. Pons to call me in, it would be a great step.”

“I will try,” said La Cibot.

Fraisier drew her back into his sanctum.  “Look here, old lady, I know M. Trognon, the notary of the quarter, very well.  If M. Pons has not a notary, mention M. Trognon to him.  Make him take M. Trognon—­”

“Right,” returned La Cibot.

And as she came out again she heard the rustle of a dress and the sound of a stealthy, heavy footstep.

Out in the street and by herself, Mme. Cibot to some extent recovered her liberty of mind as she walked.  Though the influence of the conversation was still upon her, and she had always stood in dread of scaffolds, justice, and judges, she took a very natural resolution which was to bring about a conflict of strategy between her and her formidable legal adviser.

“What do I want with other folk?” said she to herself.  “Let us make a round sum, and afterwards I will take all that they offer me to push their interests;” and this thought, as will shortly be seen, hastened the poor old musician’s end.

“Well, dear M. Schmucke, and how is our dear, adored patient?” asked La Cibot, as she came into the room.