“Fery pad; Bons haf peen vandering all der night.”

“Then, what did he say?”

“Chust nonsense.  He vould dot I haf all his fortune, on kondition dot I sell nodings.—­Den he cried!  Boor mann!  It made me ver’ sad.”

“Never mind, honey,” returned the portress.  “I have kept you waiting for your breakfast; it is nine o’clock and past; but don’t scold me.  I have business on hand, you see, business of yours.  Here are we without any money, and I have been out to get some.”

“Vere?” asked Schmucke.

“Of my uncle.”

“Onkel?”

“Up the spout.”

“Shpout?”

“Oh! the dear man! how simple he is?  No, you are a saint, a love, an archbishop of innocence, a man that ought to be stuffed, as the old actor said.  What! you have lived in Paris for twenty-nine years; you saw the Revolution of July, you did, and you have never so much as heard tell of a pawnbroker—­a man that lends you money on your things?  —­I have been pawning our silver spoons and forks, eight of them, thread pattern.  Pooh, Cibot can eat his victuals with German silver; it is quite the fashion now, they say.  It is not worth while to say anything to our angel there; it would upset him and make him yellower than before, and he is quite cross enough as it is.  Let us get him round again first, and afterwards we shall see.  What must be must; and we must take things as we find them, eh?”

“Goot voman! nople heart!” cried poor Schmucke, with a great tenderness in his face.  He took La Cibot’s hand and clasped it to his breast.  When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

“There, that will do, Papa Schmucke; how funny you are!  This is too bad.  I am an old daughter of the people—­my heart is in my hand.  I have something here, you see, like you have, hearts of gold that you are,” she added, slapping her chest.

“Baba Schmucke!” continued the musician.  “No.  To know de tepths of sorrow, to cry mit tears of blood, to mount up in der hefn—­dat is mein lot!  I shall not lif after Bons—­”

“Gracious!  I am sure you won’t, you are killing yourself.—­Listen, pet!”

“Bet?”

“Very well, my sonny—­”

“Zonny?”

“My lamb, then, if you like it better.”

“It is not more clear.”

“Oh, well, let me take care of you and tell you what to do; for if you go on like this, I shall have both of you laid up on my hands, you see.  To my little way of thinking, we must do the work between us.  You cannot go about Paris to give lessons for it tires you, and then you are not fit to do anything afterwards, and somebody must sit up of a night with M. Pons, now that he is getting worse and worse.  I will run round to-day to all your pupils and tell them that you are ill; is it not so?  And then you can spend the nights with our lamb, and sleep of a morning from five o’clock till, let us say, two in the afternoon.  I myself will take the day, the most tiring part, for there is your breakfast and dinner to get ready, and the bed to make, and the things to change, and the doses of medicine to give.  I could not hold out for another ten days at this rate.  What would become of you if I were to fall ill?  And you yourself, it makes one shudder to see you; just look at yourself, after sitting up with him last night!”