“She is cleverer, more astute and cunning and wily, than I thought,” said Pons with a smile.  “She lies even in her room.  Imagine it!  This morning she brought a Jew here, Elie Magus by name, and Remonencq, and a third whom I do not know, more terrific than the other two put together.  She meant to make a valuation while I was asleep; I happened to wake, and saw them all three, estimating the worth of my snuff-boxes.  The stranger said, indeed, that the Camusots had sent him here; I spoke to him. . . .  That shameless woman stood me out that I was dreaming! . . .  My good Schmucke, it was not a dream.  I heard the man perfectly plainly; he spoke to me. . . .  The two dealers took fright and made for the door. . . .  I thought that La Cibot would contradict herself—­the experiment failed. . . .  I will lay another snare, and trap the wretched woman. . . .  Poor Schmucke, you think that La Cibot is an angel; and for this month past she has been killing me by inches to gain her covetous ends.  I would not believe that a woman who served us faithfully for years could be so wicked.  That doubt has been my ruin. . . .  How much did the eight pictures fetch?”

“Vife tausend vrancs.”

“Good heavens! they were worth twenty times as much!” cried Pons; “the gems of the collection!  I have not time now to institute proceedings; and if I did, you would figure in court as the dupe of those rascals. . . .  A lawsuit would be the death of you.  You do not know what justice means—­a court of justice is a sink of iniquity. . . .  At the sight of such horrors, a soul like yours would give way.  And besides, you will have enough.  The pictures cost me forty thousand francs.  I have had them for thirty-six years. . . .  Oh, we have been robbed with surprising dexterity.  I am on the brink of the grave, I care for nothing now but thee—­for thee, the best soul under the sun. . . .

“I will not have you plundered; all that I have is yours.  So you must trust nobody, Schmucke, you that have never suspected any one in your life.  I know God watches over you, but He may forget for one moment, and you will be seized like a vessel among pirates. . . .  La Cibot is a monster!  She is killing me; and you think her an angel!  You shall see what she is.  Go and ask her to give you the name of a notary, and I will show you her with her hand in the bag.”

Schmucke listened as if Pons proclaimed an apocalypse.  Could so depraved a creature as La Cibot exist?  If Pons was right, it seemed to imply that there was no God in the world.  He went right down again to Mme. Cibot.

“Mein boor vriend Bons feel so ill,” he said, “dat he vish to make his vill.  Go und pring ein nodary.”

This was said in the hearing of several persons, for Cibot’s life was despaired of.  Remonencq and his sister, two women from neighboring porters’ lodges, two or three servants, and the lodger from the first floor on the side next the street, were all standing outside in the gateway.