“Oh! he or another, it is all one to me, for anything you will leave me.”
She tossed her head to signify that she despised riches. There was silence in the room.
A moment later Schmucke came in. He had slept for six hours, hunger awakened him, and now he stood at Pons’ bedside watching his friend without saying a word, for Mme. Cibot had laid a finger on her lips.
“Hush!” she whispered. Then she rose and went up to add under her breath, “He is going off to sleep at last, thank Heaven! He is as cross as a red donkey!—What can you expect, he is struggling with his illness——”
“No, on the contrary, I am very patient,” said the victim in a weary voice that told of a dreadful exhaustion; “but, oh! Schmucke, my dear friend, she has been to the theatre to turn me out of my place.”
There was a pause. Pons was too weak to say more. La Cibot took the opportunity and tapped her head significantly. “Do not contradict him,” she said to Schmucke; “it would kill him.”
Pons gazed into Schmucke’s honest face. “And she says that you sent her—” he continued.
“Yes,” Schmucke affirmed heroically. “It had to pe. Hush!—let us safe your life. It is absurd to vork and train your sdrength gif you haf a dreasure. Get better; ve vill sell some prick-a-prack und end our tays kvietly in a corner somveres, mit kind Montame Zipod.”
“She has perverted you,” moaned Pons.
Mme. Cibot had taken up her station behind the bed to make signals unobserved. Pons thought that she had left the room. “She is murdering me,” he added.