A torrent of evil thoughts invaded La Cibot’s heart and brain so soon as Remonencq’s diabolical suggestion opened the flood-gates of self-interest.  La Cibot climbed, or, to be more accurate, fled up the stairs, opened the door on the landing, and showed a face disguised in false solicitude in the doorway of the room where Pons and Schmucke were bemoaning themselves.  As soon as she came in, Schmucke made her a warning sign; for, true friend and sublime German that he was, he too had read the doctor’s eyes, and he was afraid that Mme. Cibot might repeat the verdict.  Mme. Cibot answered by a shake of the head indicative of deep woe.

“Well, my dear monsieur,” asked she, “how are you feeling?” She sat down on the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and fixed her eyes lovingly upon the patient; but what a glitter of metal there was in them, a terrible, tiger-like gleam if any one had watched her.

“I feel very ill,” answered poor Pons.  “I have not the slightest appetite left.—­Oh! the world, the world!” he groaned, squeezing Schmucke’s hand.  Schmucke was sitting by his bedside, and doubtless the sick man was talking of the causes of his illness.—­“I should have done far better to follow your advice, my good Schmucke, and dined here every day, and given up going into this society, that has fallen on me with all its weight, like a tumbril cart crushing an egg!  And why?”

“Come, come, don’t complain, M. Pons,” said La Cibot; “the doctor told me just how it is—­”

Schmucke tugged at her gown.—­“And you will pull through,” she continued, “only we must take great care of you.  Be easy, you have a good friend beside you, and without boasting, a woman as will nurse you like a mother nurses her first child.  I nursed Cibot round once when Dr. Poulain had given him over; he had the shroud up to his eyes, as the saying is, and they gave him up for dead.  Well, well, you have not come to that yet, God be thanked, ill though you may be.  Count on me; I would pull you through all by myself, I would!  Keep still, don’t you fidget like that.”

She pulled the coverlet over the patient’s hands as she spoke.

“There, sonny!  M. Schmucke and I will sit up with you of nights.  A prince won’t be no better nursed . . . and besides, you needn’t refuse yourself nothing that’s necessary, you can afford it.—­I have just been talking things over with Cibot, for what would he do without me, poor dear?—­Well, and I talked him round; we are both so fond of you, that he will let me stop up with you of a night.  And that is a good deal to ask of a man like him, for he is as fond of me as ever he was the day we were married.  I don’t know how it is.  It is the lodge, you see; we are always there together!  Don’t you throw off the things like that!” she cried, making a dash for the bedhead to draw the coverlet over Pons’ chest.  “If you are not good, and don’t do just as Dr. Poulain says—­and Dr. Poulain is the image of Providence on earth—­I will have no more to do with you.  You must do as I tell you—­”