Back went Schmucke, radiant and rubbing his hands; but his expression slowly changed to a look of bewildered astonishment as he heard Pons’ story of the troubles that had but just now overwhelmed him in a moment.  He tried to comfort Pons by giving him a sketch of the world from his own point of view.  Paris, in his opinion, was a perpetual hurly-burly, the men and women in it were whirled away by a tempestuous waltz; it was no use expecting anything of the world, which only looked at the outsides of things, “und not at der inderior.”  For the hundredth time he related how that the only three pupils for whom he had really cared, for whom he was ready to die, the three who had been fond of him, and even allowed him a little pension of nine hundred francs, each contributing three hundred to the amount —­his favorite pupils had quite forgotten to come to see him; and so swift was the current of Parisian life which swept them away, that if he called at their houses, he had not succeeded in seeing them once in three years—­(it is a fact, however, that Schmucke had always thought fit to call on these great ladies at ten o’clock in the morning!) —­still, his pension was paid quarterly through the medium of solicitors.

“Und yet, dey are hearts of gold,” he concluded.  “Dey are my liddle Saint Cecilias, sharming vimmen, Montame de Bordentuere, Montame de Fantenesse, und Montame du Dilet.  Gif I see dem at all, it is at die Jambs Elusees, und dey do not see me . . . yet dey are ver’ fond of me, und I might go to dine mit dem, und dey vould be ver’ bleased to see me; und I might go to deir country-houses, but I vould much rader be mit mine friend Bons, because I kann see him venefer I like, und efery tay.”

Pons took Schmucke’s hand and grasped it between his own.  All that was passing in his inmost soul was communicated in that tight pressure.  And so for awhile the friends sat like two lovers, meeting at last after a long absence.

“Tine here, efery tay!” broke out Schmucke, inwardly blessing Mme. de Marville for her hardness of heart.  “Look here!  Ve shall go a prick-a-pracking togeders, und der teufel shall nefer show his tail here.”

“Ve shall go prick-a-pracking togeders!” for the full comprehension of those truly heroic words, it must be confessed that Schmucke’s ignorance of bric-a-brac was something of the densest.  It required all the strength of his friendship to keep him from doing heedless damage in the sitting-room and study which did duty as a museum for Pons.  Schmucke, wholly absorbed in music, a composer for love of his art, took about as much interest in his friend’s little trifles as a fish might take in a flower-show at the Luxembourg, supposing that it had received a ticket of admission.  A certain awe which he certainly felt for the marvels was simply a reflection of the respect which Pons showed his treasures when he dusted them.  To Pons’ exclamations of admiration, he was wont to reply with