and were gathered together in a single thoroughfare, which should by rights have been called the Street of Tombs; issuing thence, they fell upon the relatives of the dead as they came from the cemetery, or even at the grave-side.  But competition and the spirit of speculation induced them to spread themselves further and further afield, till descending into Paris itself they reached the very precincts of the mayor’s office.  Indeed, the stone-mason’s agent has often been known to invade the house of mourning with a design for the sepulchre in his hand.

“I am in treaty with this gentleman,” said the representative of the firm of Sonet to another agent who came up.

“Pons deceased! . . .” called the clerk at this moment.  “Where are the witnesses?”

“This way, sir,” said the stone-mason’s agent, this time addressing Remonencq.

Schmucke stayed where he had been placed on the bench, an inert mass.  Remonencq begged the agent to help him, and together they pulled Schmucke towards the balustrade, behind which the registrar shelters himself from the mourning public.  Remonencq, Schmucke’s Providence, was assisted by Dr. Poulain, who filled in the necessary information as to Pons’ age and birthplace; the German knew but one thing—­that Pons was his friend.  So soon as the signatures were affixed, Remonencq and the doctor (followed by the stone-mason’s man), put Schmucke into a cab, the desperate agent whisking in afterwards, bent upon taking a definite order.

La Sauvage, on the lookout in the gateway, half-carried Schmucke’s almost unconscious form upstairs.  Remonencq and the agent went up with her.

“He will be ill!” exclaimed the agent, anxious to make an end of the piece of business which, according to him, was in progress.

“I should think he will!” returned Mme. Sauvage.  “He has been crying for twenty-four hours on end, and he would not take anything.  There is nothing like grief for giving one a sinking in the stomach.”

“My dear client,” urged the representative of the firm of Sonet, “do take some broth.  You have so much to do; some one must go to the Hotel de Ville to buy the ground in the cemetery on which you mean to erect a monument to perpetuate the memory of the friend of the arts, and bear record to your gratitude.”

“Why, there is no sense in this!” added Mme. Cantinet, coming in with broth and bread.

“If you are as weak as this, you ought to think of finding some one to act for you,” added Remonencq, “for you have a good deal on your hands, my dear sir.  There is the funeral to order.  You would not have your friend buried like a pauper!”

“Come, come, my dear sir,” put in La Sauvage, seizing a moment when Schmucke laid his head back in the great chair to pour a spoonful of soup into his mouth.  She fed him as if he had been a child, and almost in spite of himself.

“Now, if you were wise, sir, since you are inclined to give yourself up quietly to grief, you would find some one to act for you—­”