Next day the President went to Berthier.  He was anxious to make sure of M. Frederic Brunner’s financial position.  Berthier, forewarned by Mme. de Marville, had asked his new client Schwab to come.  Schwab the banker was dazzled by the prospect of such a match for his friend (everybody knows how deeply a German venerates social distinctions, so much so, that in Germany a wife takes her husband’s (official) title, and is the Frau General, the Frau Rath, and so forth)—­Schwab therefore was as accommodating as a collector who imagines that he is cheating a dealer.

“In the first place,” said Cecile’s father, “as I shall make over my estate of Marville to my daughter, I should wish the contract to be drawn up on the dotal system.  In that case, M. Brunner would invest a million francs in land to increase the estate, and by settling the land on his wife he would secure her and his children from any share in the liabilities of the bank.”

Berthier stroked his chin.  “He is coming on well, is M. le President,” thought he.

When the dotal system had been explained to Schwab, he seemed much inclined that way for his friend.  He had heard Fritz say that he wished to find some way of insuring himself against another lapse into poverty.

“There is a farm and pasture land worth twelve hundred thousand francs in the market at this moment,” remarked the President.

“If we take up shares in the Bank of France to the amount of a million francs, that will be quite enough to guarantee our account,” said Schwab.  “Fritz does not want to invest more than two million francs in business; he will do as you wish, I am sure, M. le President.”

The President’s wife and daughter were almost wild with joy when he brought home this news.  Never, surely, did so rich a capture swim so complacently into the nets of matrimony.

“You will be Mme. Brunner de Marville,” said the parent, addressing his child; “I will obtain permission for your husband to add the name to his, and afterwards he can take out letters of naturalization.  If I should be a peer of France some day, he will succeed me!”

The five days were spent by Mme. de Marville in preparations.  On the great day she dressed Cecile herself, taking as much pains as the admiral of the British fleet takes over the dressing of the pleasure yacht for Her Majesty of England when she takes a trip to Germany.

Pons and Schmucke, on their side, cleaned, swept, and dusted Pons’ museum rooms and furniture with the agility of sailors cleaning down a man-of-war.  There was not a speck of dust on the carved wood; not an inch of brass but it glistened.  The glasses over the pastels obscured nothing of the work of Latour, Greuze, and Liotard (illustrious painter of The Chocolate Girl), miracles of an art, alas! so fugitive.  The inimitable lustre of Florentine bronze took all the varying hues of the light; the painted glass glowed with color.  Every line shone out brilliantly, every object threw in its phrase in a harmony of masterpieces arranged by two musicians—­both of whom alike had attained to be poets.