“Grief haf taken afay mein abbetite,” Schmucke said, simply.
“And some one must give notice to the registrar,” said Poulain, “and lay out the body, and order the funeral; and the person who sits up with the body and the priest will want meals. Can you do all this by yourself? A man cannot die like a dog in the capital of the civilized world.”
Schmucke opened wide eyes of dismay. A brief fit of madness seized him.
“But Bons shall not tie!...” he cried aloud. “I shall safe him!”
“You cannot go without sleep much longer, and who will take your place? Some one must look after M. Pons, and give him drink, and nurse him—”
“Ah! dat is drue.”
“Very well,” said the Abbe, “I am thinking of sending your Mme. Cantinet, a good and honest creature—”
The practical details of the care of the dead bewildered Schmucke, till he was fain to die with his friend.
“He is a child,” said the doctor, turning to the Abbe Duplanty.
“Ein child,” Schmucke repeated mechanically.