The excuse was so plausible that Fraisier was fain to be satisfied with it.  “You need fear nothing,” he resumed.  “I gave you my word that you shall have your money, and I shall keep my word.  The whole matter, so far, was up in the air, but now it is as good as bank-notes. . . .  You shall have at least twelve hundred francs per annum. . . .  But, my good lady, you must act intelligently under my orders.”

“Yes, my dear M. Fraisier,” said La Cibot with cringing servility.  She was completely subdued.

“Very good.  Good-bye,” and Fraisier went, taking the dangerous document with him.  He reached home in great spirits.  The will was a terrible weapon.

“Now,” thought he, “I have a hold on Mme. la Presidente de Marville; she must keep her word with me.  If she did not, she would lose the property.”

At daybreak, when Remonencq had taken down his shutters and left his sister in charge of the shop, he came, after his wont of late, to inquire for his good friend Cibot.  The portress was contemplating the Metzu, privately wondering how a little bit of painted wood could be worth such a lot of money.

“Aha!” said he, looking over her shoulder, “that is the one picture which M. Elie Magus regretted; with that little bit of a thing, he says, his happiness would be complete.”

“What would he give for it?” asked La Cibot.

“Why, if you will promise to marry me within a year of widowhood, I will undertake to get twenty thousand francs for it from Elie Magus; and unless you marry me you will never get a thousand francs for the picture.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would be obliged to give a receipt for the money, and then you might have a lawsuit with the heirs-at-law.  If you were my wife, I myself should sell the thing to M. Magus, and in the way of business it is enough to make an entry in the day-book, and I should note that M. Schmucke sold it to me.  There, leave the panel with me. . . .  If your husband were to die you might have a lot of bother over it, but no one would think it odd that I should have a picture in the shop. . . .  You know me quite well.  Besides, I will give you a receipt if you like.”

The covetous portress felt that she had been caught; she agreed to a proposal which was to bind her for the rest of her life to the marine-store dealer.

“You are right,” said she, as she locked the picture away in a chest; “bring me the bit of writing.”

Remonencq beckoned her to the door.

“I can see, neighbor, that we shall not save our poor dear Cibot,” he said lowering his voice.  “Dr. Poulain gave him up yesterday evening, and said that he could not last out the day. . . .  It is a great misfortune.  But after all, this was not the place for you. . . .  You ought to be in a fine curiosity shop on the Boulevard des Capucines.  Do you know that I have made nearly a hundred thousand francs in ten years?  And if you will have as much some day, I will undertake to make a handsome fortune for you—­as my wife.  You would be the mistress—­my sister should wait on you and do the work of the house, and—­”