d as a
commercial traveler stood him in good stead.

A self-made man, he did not take himself seriously. He gave suppers
and banquets to celebrities in rooms sumptuously furnished by the house
decorator. Showy by nature, with a taste for doing things handsomely,
he affected an easy-going air, and seemed so much the less formidable
because he had kept the slang of "the road" (to use his own expression),
with a few green-room phrases superadded. Now, artists in the theatrical
profession are wont to express themselves with some vigor; Gaudissart
borrowed sufficient racy green-room talk to blend with his commercial
traveler's lively jocularity, and passed for a wit. He was thinking at
that moment of selling his license and "going into another line," as he
said. He thought of being chairman of a railway company, of becoming a
responsible person and an administrator, and finally of marrying Mlle.
Minard, daughter of the richest mayor in Paris. He might hope to get
into the Chamber through "his line," and, with Popinot's influence, to
take office under the Government.

"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" inquired Gaudissart, looking
magisterially at La Cibot.

"I am M. Pons' confidential servant, sir."

"Well, and how is the dear fellow?"

"Ill, sir--very ill."

"The devil he is! I am sorry to hear it--I must come and see him; he is
such a man as you don't often find."

"Ah yes! sir, he is a cherub, he is. I have always wondered how he came
to be in a theatre."

"Why, madame, the theatre is a house of correction for morals," said
Gaudissart. "Poor Pons!--Upon my word, one ought to cultivate the
species to keep up the stock. 'Tis a pattern man, and has talent too.
When will he be able to take his orchestra again, do you think? A
theatre, unfortunately, is like a stage coach: empty or full, it
starts at the same time. Here at six o'clock every evening, up goes the
curtain; and if we are never sorry for ourselves, it won't make good
music. Let us see now--how is he?"

La Cibot pulled out her pocket-handkerchief and held it to her eyes.

"It is a terrible thing to say, my dear sir," said she; "but I am afraid
we shall lose him, though we are as careful of him as of the apple of
our eyes. And, at the same time, I came to say that you must not count
on M. Schmucke, worthy man, for he is going to sit up with him at night.
One cannot help doing as if there was hope still left, and trying one's
best to snatch the dear,