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.
“Oh! you can just fetch a notary yourself, and have your will made as you please,” cried La Cibot, with tears in her eyes. “My poor Cibot is dying, and it is no time to leave him. I would give all the Ponses in the world to save Cibot, that has never given me an ounce of unhappiness in these thirty years since we were married.”
And in she went, leaving Schmucke in confusion.
“Is M. Pons really seriously ill, sir?” asked the first-floor lodger, one Jolivard, a clerk in the registrar’s office at the Palais de Justice.
“He nearly died chust now,” said Schmucke, with deep sorrow in his voice.
“M. Trognon lives near by in the Rue Saint-Louis,” said M. Jolivard, “he is the notary of the quarter.”
“Would you like me to go for him?” asked Remonencq.
“I should pe fery glad,” said Schmucke; “for gif Montame Zipod cannot pe mit mine vriend, I shall not vish to leaf him in der shtate he is in—”