men in the room. Is it always
to be like this?"

"What! was there not a gentleman here just now, saying that my relatives
had sent him?"

"Will you still stand me out?" said she. "Upon my word, do you know
where you ought to be sent?--To the asylum at Charenton. You see men--"

"Elie Magus, Remonencq, and--"

"Oh! as for Remonencq, you may have seen _him_, for he came up to tell
me that my poor Cibot is so bad that I must clear out of this and come
down. My Cibot comes first, you see. When my husband is ill, I can think
of nobody else. Try to keep quiet and sleep for a couple of hours; I
have sent for Dr. Poulain, and I will come up with him.... Take a drink
and be good--"

"Then was there no one in the room just now, when I waked?..."

"No one," said she. "You must have seen M. Remonencq in one of your
looking-glasses."

"You are right, Mme. Cibot," said Pons, meek as a lamb.

"Well, now you are sensible again.... Good-bye, my cherub; keep quiet, I
shall be back again in a minute."

When Pons heard the outer door close upon her, he summoned up all his
remaining strength to rise.

"They are cheating me," he muttered to himself, "they are robbing me!
Schmucke is a child that would let them tie him up in a sack."

The terrible scene had seemed so real, it could not be a dream, he
thought; a desire to throw light upon the puzzle excited him; he managed
to reach the door, opened it after many efforts, and stood on the
threshold of his salon. There they were--his dear pictures, his statues,
his Florentine bronzes, his porcelain; the sight of them revived him.
The old collector walked in his dressing-gown along the narrow spaces
between the credence-tables and the sideboards that lined the wall; his
feet bare, his head on fire. His first glance of ownership told him that
everything was there; he turned to go back to bed again, when he noticed
that a Greuze portrait looked out of the frame that had held Sebastian
del Piombo's _Templar_. Suspicion flashed across his brain, making
his dark thoughts apparent to him, as a flash of lightning marks the
outlines of the cloud-bars on a stormy sky. He looked round for the
eight capital pictures of the collection; each one of them was replaced
by another. A dark film suddenly overspread his eyes; his strength
failed him; he fell fainting upon the polished floor.

So heavy was the swoon, that for two hours he lay as he fell, till
Schmucke awoke and went to see his friend,