“Do go and ask him what it is that they all have against me,” he said to the friend who knew all the details of the catastrophe that Pons could tell him.

“Mennseir,” Schmucke began diplomatically, “mine friend Bons is chust recofering from an illness; you haf no doubt fail to rekognize him?”

“Not in the least.”

“But mit vat kann you rebroach him?”

“You have a monster of ingratitude for a friend, sir; if he is still alive, it is because nothing kills ill weeds.  People do well to mistrust artists; they are as mischievous and spiteful as monkeys.  This friend of yours tried to dishonor his own family, and to blight a young girl’s character, in revenge for a harmless joke.  I wish to have nothing to do with him; I shall do my best to forget that I have known him, or that such a man exists.  All the members of his family and my own share the wish, sir, so do all the persons who once did the said Pons the honor of receiving him.”

“Boot, mennseir, you are a reasonaple mann; gif you vill bermit me, I shall exblain die affair—­”

“You are quite at liberty to remain his friend, sir, if you are minded that way,” returned Cardot, “but you need go no further; for I must give you warning that in my opinion those who try to excuse or defend his conduct are just as much to blame.”

“To chustify it?”

“Yes, for his conduct can neither be justified nor qualified.”  And with that word, the deputy for the Seine went his way; he would not hear another syllable.

“I have two powers in the State against me,” smiled poor Pons, when Schmucke had repeated these savage speeches.

“Eferpody is against us,” Schmucke answered dolorously.  “Let us go avay pefore we shall meed oder fools.”

Never before in the course of a truly ovine life had Schmucke uttered such words as these.  Never before had his almost divine meekness been ruffled.  He had smiled childlike on all the mischances that befell him, but he could not look and see his sublime Pons maltreated; his Pons, his unknown Aristides, the genius resigned to his lot, the nature that knew no bitterness, the treasury of kindness, the heart of gold! . . .  Alceste’s indignation filled Schmucke’s soul—­he was moved to call Pons’ amphitryons “fools.”  For his pacific nature that impulse equaled the wrath of Roland.

With wise foresight, Schmucke turned to go home by the way of the Boulevard du Temple, Pons passively submitting like a fallen fighter, heedless of blows; but chance ordered that he should know that all his world was against him.  The House of Peers, the Chamber of Deputies, strangers and the family, the strong, the weak, and the innocent, all combined to send down the avalanche.