A self-made man, he did not take himself seriously.  He gave suppers and banquets to celebrities in rooms sumptuously furnished by the house decorator.  Showy by nature, with a taste for doing things handsomely, he affected an easy-going air, and seemed so much the less formidable because he had kept the slang of “the road” (to use his own expression), with a few green-room phrases superadded.  Now, artists in the theatrical profession are wont to express themselves with some vigor; Gaudissart borrowed sufficient racy green-room talk to blend with his commercial traveler’s lively jocularity, and passed for a wit.  He was thinking at that moment of selling his license and “going into another line,” as he said.  He thought of being chairman of a railway company, of becoming a responsible person and an administrator, and finally of marrying Mlle. Minard, daughter of the richest mayor in Paris.  He might hope to get into the Chamber through “his line,” and, with Popinot’s influence, to take office under the Government.

“Whom have I the honor of addressing?” inquired Gaudissart, looking magisterially at La Cibot.

“I am M. Pons’ confidential servant, sir.”

“Well, and how is the dear fellow?”

“Ill, sir—­very ill.”

“The devil he is!  I am sorry to hear it—­I must come and see him; he is such a man as you don’t often find.”

“Ah yes! sir, he is a cherub, he is.  I have always wondered how he came to be in a theatre.”

“Why, madame, the theatre is a house of correction for morals,” said Gaudissart.  “Poor Pons!—­Upon my word, one ought to cultivate the species to keep up the stock.  ’Tis a pattern man, and has talent too.  When will he be able to take his orchestra again, do you think?  A theatre, unfortunately, is like a stage coach:  empty or full, it starts at the same time.  Here at six o’clock every evening, up goes the curtain; and if we are never sorry for ourselves, it won’t make good music.  Let us see now—­how is he?”

La Cibot pulled out her pocket-handkerchief and held it to her eyes.

“It is a terrible thing to say, my dear sir,” said she; “but I am afraid we shall lose him, though we are as careful of him as of the apple of our eyes.  And, at the same time, I came to say that you must not count on M. Schmucke, worthy man, for he is going to sit up with him at night.  One cannot help doing as if there was hope still left, and trying one’s best to snatch the dear, good soul from death.  But the doctor has given him up——­”

“What is the matter with him?”

“He is dying of grief, jaundice, and liver complaint, with a lot of family affairs to complicate matters.”

“And a doctor as well,” said Gaudissart.  “He ought to have had Lebrun, our doctor; it would have cost him nothing.”

“M.  Pons’ doctor is a Providence on earth.  But what can a doctor do, no matter how clever he is, with such complications?”