“Dake it all and leaf me to mein prayers and tears,” he said, and knelt.
Mme. Sauvage went to Fraisier with the news of Pons’ death. Fraisier took a cab and went to the Presidente. To-morrow she must give him the power of attorney to enable him to act for the heirs.
Another hour went by, and Mme. Cantinet came again to Schmucke.
“I have been to Mme. Cibot, sir, who knows all about things here,” she said. “I asked her to tell me where everything is kept. But she almost jawed me to death with her abuse.... Sir, do listen to me....”
Schmucke looked up at the woman, and she went on, innocent of any barbarous intention, for women of her class are accustomed to take the worst of moral suffering passively, as a matter of course.
“We must have linen for the shroud, sir, we must have money to buy a truckle-bed for the person to sleep upon, and some things for the kitchen—plates, and dishes, and glasses, for a priest will be coming to pass the night here, and the person says that there is absolutely nothing in the kitchen.”
“And what is more, sir, I must have coal and firing if I am to get the dinner ready,” echoed La Sauvage, “and not a thing can I find. Not that there is anything so very surprising in that, as La Cibot used to do everything for you—”
Schmucke lay at the feet of the dead; he heard nothing, knew nothing, saw nothing. Mme. Cantinet pointed to him. “My dear woman, you would not believe me,” she said. “Whatever you say, he does not answer.”
“Very well, child,” said La Sauvage; “now I will show you what to do in a case of this kind.”
She looked round the room as a thief looks in search of possible hiding-places for money; then she went straight to Pons’ chest, opened the first drawer, saw the bag in which Schmucke had put the rest of the money after the sale of the pictures, and held it up before him. He nodded mechanically.