“No.  It is against the rules of the guild for a barrister (avocat) to put his name to a bill.  I will give you a receipt, bearing interest at five per cent per annum, on the understanding that if I make an income of twelve hundred francs for you out of old Pons’ estate you will cancel it.”

La Cibot, caught in the trap, uttered not a word.

“Silence gives consent,” Fraisier continued.  “Let me have it to-morrow morning.”

“Oh!  I am quite willing to pay fees in advance,” said La Cibot; “it is one way of making sure of my money.”

Fraisier nodded.  “How are you getting on?” he repeated.  “I saw Poulain yesterday; you are hurrying your invalid along, it seems. . . .  One more scene such as yesterday’s, and gall-stones will form.  Be gentle with him, my dear Mme. Cibot, do not lay up remorse for yourself.  Life is not too long.”

“Just let me alone with your remorse!  Are you going to talk about the guillotine again?  M. Pons is a contrairy old thing.  You don’t know him.  It is he that bothers me.  There is not a more cross-grained man alive; his relations are in the right of it, he is sly, revengeful, and contrairy. . . .  M. Magus has come, as I told you, and is waiting to see you.”

“Right!  I will be there as soon as you.  Your income depends upon the price the collection will fetch.  If it brings in eight hundred thousand francs, you shall have fifteen hundred francs a year.  It is a fortune.”

“Very well.  I will tell them to value the things on their consciences.”

An hour later, Pons was fast asleep.  The doctor had ordered a soothing draught, which Schmucke administered, all unconscious that La Cibot had doubled the dose.  Fraisier, Remonencq, and Magus, three gallows-birds, were examining the seventeen hundred different objects which formed the old musician’s collection one by one.

Schmucke had gone to bed.  The three kites, drawn by the scent of a corpse, were masters of the field.

“Make no noise,” said La Cibot whenever Magus went into ecstasies or explained the value of some work of art to Remonencq.  The dying man slept on in the neighboring room, while greed in four different forms appraised the treasures that he must leave behind, and waited impatiently for him to die—­a sight to wring the heart.

Three hours went by before they had finished the salon.

“On an average,” said the grimy old Jew, “everything here is worth a thousand francs.”

“Seventeen hundred thousand francs!” exclaimed Fraisier in bewilderment.

“Not to me,” Magus answered promptly, and his eyes grew dull.  “I would not give more than a hundred thousand francs myself for the collection.  You cannot tell how long you may keep a thing on hand. . . .  There are masterpieces that wait ten years for a buyer, and meanwhile the purchase money is doubled by compound interest.  Still, I should pay cash.”