In the sitting-room La Cibot explained her position with regard to the pair of nutcrackers at very considerable length. She repeated the history of her loan with added embellishments, and gave a full account of the immense services rendered during the past ten years to MM. Pons and Schmucke. The two old men, to all appearance, could not exist without her motherly care. She posed as an angel; she told so many lies, one after another, watering them with her tears, that old Mme. Poulain was quite touched.
“You understand, my dear sir,” she concluded, “that I really ought to know how far I can depend on M. Pons’ intentions, supposing that he should not die; not that I want him to die, for looking after those two innocents is my life, madame, you see; still, when one of them is gone I shall look after the other. For my own part, I was built by Nature to rival mothers. Without nobody to care for, nobody to take for a child, I don’t know what I should do.... So if M. Poulain only would, he might do me a service for which I should be very grateful; and that is, to say a word to M. Pons for me. Goodness me! an annuity of a thousand francs, is that too much, I ask you?... To. M. Schmucke it would be so much gained.—Our dear patient said that he should recommend me to the German, poor man; it is his idea, no doubt, that M. Schmucke should be his heir. But what is a man that cannot put two ideas together in French? And besides, he would be quite capable of going back to Germany, he will be in such despair over his friend’s death—”
The doctor grew grave. “My dear Mme. Cibot,” he said, “this sort of thing does not in the least concern a doctor. I should not be allowed to exercise my profession if it was known that I interfered in the matter of my patients’ testamentary dispositions. The law forbids a doctor to receive a legacy from a patient—”
“A stupid law! What is to hinder me from dividing my legacy with you?” La Cibot said immediately.
“I will go further,” said the doctor; “my professional conscience will not permit me to speak to M. Pons of his death. In the first place, he is not so dangerously ill that there is any need to speak of it, and in the second, such talk coming from me might give a shock to the system that would do him real harm, and then his illness might terminate fatally—”
“I don’t put on gloves to tell him to get his affairs in order,” cried Mme. Cibot, “and he is none the worse for that. He is used to it. There is nothing to fear.”
“Not a word more about it, my dear Mme. Cibot! These things are not within a doctor’s province; it is a notary’s business—”
“But, my dear M. Poulain, suppose that M. Pons of his own accord should ask you how he is, and whether he had better make his arrangements; then, would you refuse to tell him that if you want to get better it is an excellent plan to set everything in order? Then you might just slip in a little word for me—”
“Oh, if he talks of making his will, I certainly shall not dissuade him,” said the doctor.
“Very well, that is settled. I came to thank you for your care of me,” she added, as she slipped a folded paper containing three gold coins into the doctor’s hands. “It is all I can do at the moment. Ah! my dear M. Poulain, if I were rich, you should be rich, you that are the image of Providence on earth.—Madame, you have an angel for a son.”