“Really?” said Pons.  “Very well, I will try to-morrow.”

And at that promise Schmucke sprang from one end of the table to the other, sweeping off tablecloth, bottles, and dishes as he went, and hugged Pons to his heart.  So might gas rush to combine with gas.

“Vat happiness!” cried he.

Mme. Cibot was quite touched.  “Monsieur is going to dine here every day!” she cried proudly.

That excellent woman departed downstairs again in ignorance of the event which had brought about this result, entered her room like Josepha in William Tell, set down the plates and dishes on the table with a bang, and called aloud to her husband: 

“Cibot! run to the Cafe Turc for two small cups of coffee, and tell the man at the stove that it is for me.”

Then she sat down and rested her hands on her massive knees, and gazed out of the window at the opposite wall.

“I will go to-night and see what Ma’am Fontaine says,” she thought.  (Madame Fontaine told fortunes on the cards for all the servants in the quarter of the Marais.) “Since these two gentlemen came here, we have put two thousand francs in the savings bank.  Two thousand francs in eight years!  What luck!  Would it be better to make no profit out of M. Pons’ dinner and keep him here at home?  Ma’am Fontaine’s hen will tell me that.”

Three years ago Mme. Cibot had begun to cherish a hope that her name might be mentioned in “her gentlemen’s” wills; she had redoubled her zeal since that covetous thought tardily sprouted up in the midst of that so honest moustache.  Pons hitherto had dined abroad, eluding her desire to have both of “her gentlemen” entirely under her management; his “troubadour” collector’s life had scared away certain vague ideas which hovered in La Cibot’s brain; but now her shadowy projects assumed the formidable shape of a definite plan, dating from that memorable dinner.  Fifteen minutes later she reappeared in the dining-room with two cups of excellent coffee, flanked by a couple of tiny glasses of kirschwasser.

“Long lif Montame Zipod!” cried Schmucke; “she haf guessed right!”

The diner-out bemoaned himself a little, while Schmucke met his lamentations with coaxing fondness, like a home pigeon welcoming back a wandering bird.  Then the pair set out for the theatre.

Schmucke could not leave his friend in the condition to which he had been brought by the Camusots—­mistresses and servants.  He knew Pons so well; he feared lest some cruel, sad thought should seize on him at his conductor’s desk, and undo all the good done by his welcome home to the nest.

And Schmucke brought his friend back on his arm through the streets at midnight.  A lover could not be more careful of his lady.  He pointed out the edges of the curbstones, he was on the lookout whenever they stepped on or off the pavement, ready with a warning if there was a gutter to cross.  Schmucke could have wished that the streets were paved with cotton-down; he would have had a blue sky overhead, and Pons should hear the music which all the angels in heaven were making for him.  He had won the lost province in his friend’s heart!