wers, no doubt, and
near them a stout holly-wood stick.

Though Marie's sight and smell were disagreeably affected, Schmucke's
smile and glance disguised these abject miseries by rays of celestial
light which actually illuminated their smoky tones and vivified the
chaos. The soul of this dear man, which saw and revealed so many things
divine, shone like the sun. His laugh, so frank, so guileless at
seeing one of his Saint-Cecilias, shed sparkles of youth and gaiety and
innocence about him. The treasures he poured from the inner to the outer
were like a mantle with which he covered his squalid life. The most
supercilious parvenu would have felt it ignoble to care for the frame in
which this glorious old apostle of the musical religion lived and moved
and had his being.

"Hey! by what good luck do I see you here, dear Madame la comtesse?"
he said. "Must I sing the canticle of Simeon at my age?" (This idea
so tickled him that he laughed immoderately.) "Truly I'm 'en bonne
fortune.'" (And again he laughed like a merry child.) "But, ah!" he
said, changing to melancholy, "you come for the music, and not for a
poor old man like me. Yes, I know that; but come for what you will, I am
yours, you know, body and soul and all I have!"

This was said in his unspeakable German accent, a rendition of which we
spare the reader.

He took the countess's hand, kissed it and left a tear there, for the
worthy soul was always on the morrow of her benefit. Then he seized a
bit of chalk, jumped on a chair in front of the piano, and wrote upon
the wall in big letters, with the rapidity of a young man, "February
17th, 1835." This pretty, artless action, done in such a passion of
gratitude, touched the countess to tears.

"My sister will come too," she said.

"The other, too! When? when? God grant it be before I die!"

"She will come to thank you for a great service I am now here to ask of
you."

"Quick! quick! tell me what it is," cried Schmucke. "What must I do? go
to the devil?"

"Nothing more than write the words 'Accepted for ten thousand francs,'
and sign your name on each of these papers," she said, taking from her
muff four notes prepared for her by Nathan.

"Hey! that's soon done," replied the German, with the docility of a
lamb; "only I'm sure I don't know where my pens and ink are--Get away
from there, Meinherr Mirr!" he cried to the cat, which looked composedly
at him. "That's my cat," he said, showing him to the countess.