bring about a conflict of strategy between her and her formidable
legal adviser.

"What do I want with other folk?" said she to herself. "Let us make a
round sum, and afterwards I will take all that they offer me to push
their interests;" and this thought, as will shortly be seen, hastened
the poor old musician's end.

"Well, dear M. Schmucke, and how is our dear, adored patient?" asked La
Cibot, as she came into the room.

"Fery pad; Bons haf peen vandering all der night."

"Then, what did he say?"

"Chust nonsense. He vould dot I haf all his fortune, on kondition dot I
sell nodings.--Den he cried! Boor mann! It made me ver' sad."

"Never mind, honey," returned the portress. "I have kept you waiting for
your breakfast; it is nine o'clock and past; but don't scold me. I have
business on hand, you see, business of yours. Here are we without any
money, and I have been out to get some."

"Vere?" asked Schmucke.

"Of my uncle."

"Onkel?"

"Up the spout."

"Shpout?"

"Oh! the dear man! how simple he is? No, you are a saint, a love, an
archbishop of innocence, a man that ought to be stuffed, as the old
actor said. What! you have lived in Paris for twenty-nine years; you
saw the Revolution of July, you did, and you have never so much as heard
tell of a pawnbroker--a man that lends you money on your things?--I have
been pawning our silver spoons and forks, eight of them, thread pattern.
Pooh, Cibot can eat his victuals with German silver; it is quite the
fashion now, they say. It is not worth while to say anything to our
angel there; it would upset him and make him yellower than before, and
he is quite cross enough as it is. Let us get him round again first, and
afterwards we shall see. What must be must; and we must take things as
we find them, eh?"

"Goot voman! nople heart!" cried poor Schmucke, with a great tenderness
in his face. He took La Cibot's hand and clasped it to his breast. When
he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

"There, that will do, Papa Schmucke; how funny you are! This is too
bad. I am an old daughter of the people--my heart is in my hand. I have
something _here_, you see, like you have, hearts of gold that you are,"
she added, slapping her chest.

"Baba Schmucke!" continued the musician. "No. To know de tepths of
sorrow, to cry mit tears of blood, to mount up in der hefn--dat is mein
lot! I shall not lif after Bons--"

"Gracious! I am sure you won't, you are killing yoursel