“Poor lamb!” Gaudissart muttered to himself as the German took his leave. “But, after all, one lives on mutton; and, as the sublime Beranger says, ‘Poor sheep! you were made to be shorn,’” and he hummed the political squib by way of giving vent to his feelings. Then he rang for the office-boy.
“Call my carriage,” he said.
“Rue de Hanovre,” he told the coachman.
The man of ambitions by this time had reappeared; he saw the way to the Council of State lying straight before him.
And Schmucke? He was busy buying flowers and cakes for Topinard’s children, and went home almost joyously.
“I am gifing die bresents...” he said, and he smiled. It was the first smile for three months, but any one who had seen Schmucke’s face would have shuddered to see it there.
“But dere is ein condition—”
“It is too kind of you, sir,” said the mother.
“De liddle girl shall gif me a kiss and put die flowers in her hair, like die liddle German maidens—”
“Olga, child, do just as the gentleman wishes,” said the mother, assuming an air of discipline.