In the Boulevard Poissonniere, Pons caught sight of that very M. Cardot’s daughter, who, young as she was, had learned to be charitable to others through trouble of her own.  Her husband knew a secret by which he kept her in bondage.  She was the only one among Pons’ hostesses whom he called by her Christian name; he addressed Mme. Berthier as “Felicie,” and he thought that she understood him.  The gentle creature seemed to be distressed by the sight of Cousin Pons, as he was called (though he was in no way related to the family of the second wife of a cousin by marriage).  There was no help for it, however; Felicie Berthier stopped to speak to the invalid.

“I did not think you were cruel, cousin,” she said; “but if even a quarter of all that I hear of you is true, you are very false. . . .  Oh! do not justify yourself,” she added quickly, seeing Pons’ significant gesture, “it is useless, for two reasons.  In the first place, I have no right to accuse or judge or condemn anybody, for I myself know so well how much may be said for those who seem to be most guilty; secondly, your explanation would do no good.  M. Berthier drew up the marriage contract for Mlle. de Marville and the Vicomte Popinot; he is so exasperated, that if he knew that I had so much as spoken one word to you, one word for the last time, he would scold me.  Everybody is against you.”

“So it seems indeed, madame,” Pons said, his voice shaking as he lifted his hat respectfully.

Painfully he made his way back to the Rue de Normandie.  The old German knew from the heavy weight on his arm that his friend was struggling bravely against failing physical strength.  That third encounter was like the verdict of the Lamb at the foot of the throne of God; and the anger of the Angel of the Poor, the symbol of the Peoples, is the last word of Heaven.  They reached home without another word.

There are moments in our lives when the sense that our friend is near is all that we can bear.  Our wounds smart under the consoling words that only reveal the depths of pain.  The old pianist, you see, possessed a genius for friendship, the tact of those who, having suffered much, knew the customs of suffering.

Pons was never to take a walk again.  From one illness he fell into another.  He was of a sanguine-bilious temperament, the bile passed into his blood, and a violent liver attack was the result.  He had never known a day’s illness in his life till a month ago; he had never consulted a doctor; so La Cibot, with almost motherly care and intentions at first of the very best, called in “the doctor of the quarter.”