As he went back to the Rue de Normandie by way of the boulevards, he dreamed out his golden dream, he gave himself up to the happiness of the thought that he should never know want again.  He would marry his friend Poulain to Mlle. Vitel, the daughter of the justice of the peace; together, he and his friend the doctor would reign like kings in the quarter; he would carry all the elections—­municipal, military, or political.  The boulevards seem short if, while you pace afoot, you mount your ambition on the steed of fancy in this way.

Schmucke meanwhile went back to his friend Pons with the news that Cibot was dying, and Remonencq gone in search of M. Trognon, the notary.  Pons was struck by the name.  It had come up again and again in La Cibot’s interminable talk, and La Cibot always recommended him as honesty incarnate.  And with that a luminous idea occurred to Pons, in whom mistrust had grown paramount since the morning, an idea which completed his plan for outwitting La Cibot and unmasking her completely for the too-credulous Schmucke.

So many unexpected things had happened that day that poor Schmucke was quite bewildered.  Pons took his friend’s hand.

“There must be a good deal of confusion in the house, Schmucke; if the porter is at death’s door, we are almost free for a minute or two; that is to say, there will be no spies—­for we are watched, you may be sure of that.  Go out, take a cab, go to the theatre, and tell Mlle. Heloise Brisetout that I should like to see her before I die.  Ask her to come here to-night when she leaves the theatre.  Then go to your friends Brunner and Schwab and beg them to come to-morrow morning at nine o’clock to inquire after me; let them come up as if they were just passing by and called in to see me.”

The old artist felt that he was dying, and this was the scheme that he forged.  He meant Schmucke to be his universal legatee.  To protect Schmucke from any possible legal quibbles, he proposed to dictate his will to a notary in the presence of witnesses, lest his sanity should be called in question and the Camusots should attempt upon that pretext to dispute the will.  At the name of Trognon he caught a glimpse of machinations of some kind; perhaps a flaw purposely inserted, or premeditated treachery on La Cibot’s part.  He would prevent this.  Trognon should dictate a holograph will which should be signed and deposited in a sealed envelope in a drawer.  Then Schmucke, hidden in one of the cabinets in his alcove, should see La Cibot search for the will, find it, open the envelope, read it through, and seal it again.  Next morning, at nine o’clock, he would cancel the will and make a new one in the presence of two notaries, everything in due form and order.  La Cibot had treated him as a madman and a visionary; he saw what this meant—­he saw the Presidente’s hate and greed, her revenge in La Cibot’s behavior.  In the sleepless hours and lonely days of the last two months, the poor man had sifted the events of his past life.