"What will you do, left alone with your dead friend?" asked M. l'Abbe Duplanty when Schmucke came to the door. "You have not Mme. Cibot now—"
"Ein monster dat haf killed Bons!"
"But you must have somebody with you," began Dr. Poulain. "Some one must sit up with the body to-night."
"I shall sit up; I shall say die prayers to Gott," the innocent German answered.
"But you must eat—and who is to cook for you now?" asked the doctor.
"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—"