“I am just about to go to poor M. Pons,” he said.  “There is still a chance of recovery; but it is a question of inducing him to undergo an operation.  The calculi are perceptible to the touch, they are setting up an inflammatory condition which will end fatally, but perhaps it is not too late to remove them.  You should really use your influence to persuade the patient to submit to surgical treatment; I will answer for his life, provided that no untoward circumstance occurs during the operation.”

“I will return as soon as I have taken the sacred ciborium back to the church,” said the Abbe Duplanty, “for M. Schmucke’s condition claims the support of religion.”

“I have just heard that he is alone,” said Dr. Poulain.  “The German, good soul, had a little altercation this morning with Mme. Cibot, who has acted as housekeeper to them both for the past ten years.  They have quarreled (for the moment only, no doubt), but under the circumstances they must have some one in to help upstairs.  It would be a charity to look after him.—­I say, Cantinet,” continued the doctor, beckoning to the beadle, “just go and ask your wife if she will nurse M. Pons, and look after M. Schmucke, and take Mme. Cibot’s place for a day or two. . . .  Even without the quarrel, Mme. Cibot would still require a substitute.  Mme. Cantinet is honest,” added the doctor, turning to M. Duplanty.

“You could not make a better choice,” said the good priest; “she is intrusted with the letting of chairs in the church.”

A few minutes later, Dr. Poulain stood by Pons’ pillow watching the progress made by death, and Schmucke’s vain efforts to persuade his friend to consent to the operation.  To all the poor German’s despairing entreaties Pons only replied by a shake of the head and occasional impatient movements; till, after awhile, he summoned up all his fast-failing strength to say, with a heartrending look: 

“Do let me die in peace!”

Schmucke almost died of sorrow, but he took Pons’ hand and softly kissed it, and held it between his own, as if trying a second time to give his own vitality to his friend.

Just at this moment the bell rang, and Dr. Poulain, going to the door, admitted the Abbe Duplanty.

“Our poor patient is struggling in the grasp of death,” he said.  “All will be over in a few hours.  You will send a priest, no doubt, to watch to-night.  But it is time that Mme. Cantinet came, as well as a woman to do the work, for M. Schmucke is quite unfit to think of anything:  I am afraid for his reason; and there are valuables here which ought to be in the custody of honest persons.”