“Mein boor Bons in vandering,” said he; “he says dat you are ein pad voman.  It ees his illness,” he added hastily, to soften La Cibot and excuse his friend.

“Oh, I have had enough of his illness!  Look here, he is neither father, nor husband, nor brother, nor child of mine.  He has taken a dislike to me; well and good, that is enough!  As for you, you see, I would follow you to the end of the world; but when a woman gives her life, her heart, and all her savings, and neglects her husband (for here has Cibot fallen ill), and then hears that she is a bad woman—­it is coming it rather too strong, it is.”

“Too shtrong?”

“Too strong, yes.  Never mind idle words.  Let us come to the facts.  As to that, you owe me for three months at a hundred and ninety francs —­that is five hundred seventy francs; then there is the rent that I have paid twice (here are the receipts), six hundred more, including rates and the sou in the franc for the porter—­something under twelve hundred francs altogether, and with the two thousand francs besides —­without interest, mind you—­the total amounts to three thousand one hundred and ninety-two francs.  And remember that you will want at least two thousand francs before long for the doctor, and the nurse, and the medicine, and the nurse’s board.  That was why I borrowed a thousand francs of M. Pillerault,” and with that she held up Gaudissart’s bank-note.

It may readily be conceived that Schmucke listened to this reckoning with amazement, for he knew about as much of business as a cat knows of music.

“Montame Zipod,” he expostulated, “Bons haf lost his head.  Bardon him, and nurse him as before, und pe our profidence; I peg it of you on mine knees,” and he knelt before La Cibot and kissed the tormentor’s hands.

La Cibot raised Schmucke and kissed him on the forehead.  “Listen, my lamb,” said she, “here is Cibot ill in bed; I have just sent for Dr. Poulain.  So I ought to set my affairs in order.  And what is more, Cibot saw me crying, and flew into such a passion that he will not have me set foot in here again.  It is he who wants the money; it is his, you see.  We women can do nothing when it comes to that.  But if you let him have his money back again—­the three thousand two hundred francs—­he will be quiet perhaps.  Poor man, it is his all, earned by the sweat of his brow, the savings of twenty-six years of life together.  He must have his money to-morrow; there is no getting round him.—­You do not know Cibot; when he is angry he would kill a man.  Well, I might perhaps get leave of him to look after you both as before.  Be easy.  I will just let him say anything that comes into his head.  I will bear it all for love of you, an angel as you are.”

“No, I am ein boor man, dot lof his friend and vould gif his life to save him—­”

“But the money?” broke in La Cibot.  “My good M. Schmucke, let us suppose that you pay me nothing; you will want three thousand francs, and where are they to come from?  Upon my word, do you know what I should do in your place?  I should not think twice, I should just sell seven or eight good-for-nothing pictures and put up some of those instead that are standing in your closet with their faces to the wall for want of room.  One picture or another, what difference does it make?”