La Cibot pulled out her pocket-handkerchief and held it to her eyes.
“It is a terrible thing to say, my dear sir,” said she; “but I am afraid we shall lose him, though we are as careful of him as of the apple of our eyes. And, at the same time, I came to say that you must not count on M. Schmucke, worthy man, for he is going to sit up with him at night. One cannot help doing as if there was hope still left, and trying one’s best to snatch the dear, good soul from death. But the doctor has given him up——”
“What is the matter with him?”
“He is dying of grief, jaundice, and liver complaint, with a lot of family affairs to complicate matters.”
“And a doctor as well,” said Gaudissart. “He ought to have had Lebrun, our doctor; it would have cost him nothing.”
“M. Pons’ doctor is a Providence on earth. But what can a doctor do, no matter how clever he is, with such complications?”
“I wanted the good pair of nutcrackers badly for the accompaniment of my new fairy piece.”
“Is there anything that I can do for them?” asked La Cibot, and her expression would have done credit to a Jocrisse.
Gaudissart burst out laughing.
“I am their housekeeper, sir, and do many things for my gentlemen—” She did not finish her speech, for in the middle of Gaudissart’s roar of laughter a woman’s voice exclaimed, “If you are laughing, old man, one may come in,” and the leading lady of the ballet rushed into the room and flung herself upon the only sofa. The newcomer was Heloise Brisetout, with a splendid algerienne, such as scarves used to be called, about her shoulders.