“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—”