A sick man, surrounded by those who love him, nursed by those who wish earnestly that he should live, will recover (other things being equal), when another patient tended by hirelings will die.  Doctors decline to see unconscious magnetism in this phenomenon; for them it is the result of intelligent nursing, of exact obedience to their orders; but many a mother knows the virtue of such ardent projection of strong, unceasing prayer.

“My good Schmucke—­”

“Say nodings; I shall hear you mit mein heart . . . rest, rest!” said Schmucke, smiling at him.

“Poor friend, noble creature, child of God, living in God! . . .  The one being that has loved me. . . .”  The words came out with pauses between them; there was a new note, a something never heard before, in Pons’ voice.  All the soul, so soon to take flight, found utterance in the words that filled Schmucke with happiness almost like a lover’s rapture.

“Yes, yes.  I shall be shtrong as a lion.  I shall vork for two!”

“Listen, my good, my faithful, adorable friend.  Let me speak, I have not much time left.  I am a dead man.  I cannot recover from these repeated shocks.”

Schmucke was crying like a child.

“Just listen,” continued Pons, “and cry afterwards.  As a Christian, you must submit.  I have been robbed.  It is La Cibot’s doing. . . .  I ought to open your eyes before I go; you know nothing of life. . . .  Somebody has taken away eight of the pictures, and they were worth a great deal of money.”

“Vorgif me—­I sold dem.”

“You sold them?”

“Yes, I,” said poor Schmucke.  “Dey summoned us to der court—­”

“Summoned?. . . .  Who summoned us?”

“Wait,” said Schmucke.  He went for the bit of stamped-paper left by the bailiff, and gave it to Pons.  Pons read the scrawl through with close attention, then he let the paper drop and lay quite silent for a while.  A close observer of the work of men’s hands, unheedful so far of the workings of the brain, Pons finally counted out the threads of the plot woven about him by La Cibot.  The artist’s fire, the intellect that won the Roman scholarship—­all his youth came back to him for a little.

“My good Schmucke,” he said at last, “you must do as I tell you, and obey like a soldier.  Listen! go downstairs into the lodge and tell that abominable woman that I should like to see the person sent to me by my cousin the President; and that unless he comes, I shall leave my collection to the Musee.  Say that a will is in question.”

Schmucke went on his errand; but at the first word, La Cibot answered by a smile.

“My good M. Schmucke, our dear invalid has had a delirious fit; he thought that there were men in the room.  On my word, as an honest woman, no one has come from the family.”

Schmucke went back with his answer, which he repeated word for word.