“If M. Schmucke would like marble,” put in Sonet (marble being his special department), “it would cost twelve thousand francs, and monsieur would immortalize himself as well as his friend.”

Topinard turned to Vitelot.

“I have just heard that they are going to dispute the will,” he whispered, “and the relatives are likely to come by their property.  Go and speak to M. Camusot, for this poor, harmless creature has not a farthing.”

“This is the kind of customer that you always bring us,” said Mme. Vitelot, beginning a quarrel with the agent.

Topinard led Schmucke away, and they returned home on foot to the Rue de Normandie, for the mourning-coaches had been sent back.

“Do not leaf me,” Schmucke said, when Topinard had seen him safe into Mme. Sauvage’s hands, and wanted to go.

“It is four o’clock, dear M. Schmucke.  I must go home to dinner.  My wife is a box-opener—­she will not know what has become of me.  The theatre opens at a quarter to six, you know.”

“Yes, I know . . . but remember dat I am alone in die earth, dat I haf no friend.  You dat haf shed a tear for Bons enliden me; I am in teep tarkness, und Bons said dat I vas in der midst of shcoundrels.”

“I have seen that plainly already; I have just prevented them from sending you to Clichy.”

“Gligy!” repeated Schmucke; “I do not understand.”

“Poor man!  Well, never mind, I will come to you.  Good-bye.”

“Goot-bye; komm again soon,” said Schmucke, dropping half-dead with weariness.

“Good-bye, mosieu,” said Mme. Sauvage, and there was something in her tone that struck Topinard.

“Oh, come, what is the matter now?” he asked, banteringly.  “You are attitudinizing like a traitor in a melodrama.”

“Traitor yourself!  Why have you come meddling here?  Do you want to have a hand in the master’s affairs, and swindle him, eh?”

“Swindle him! . . .  Your very humble servant!” Topinard answered with superb disdain.  “I am only a poor super at a theatre, but I am something of an artist, and you may as well know that I never asked anything of anybody yet!  Who asked anything of you?  Who owes you anything? eh, old lady!”

“You are employed at a theatre, and your name is—?”

“Topinard, at your service.”

“Kind regards to all at home,” said La Sauvage, “and my compliments to your missus, if you are married, mister. . . .  That was all I wanted to know.”

“Why, what is the matter, dear?” asked Mme. Cantinet, coming out.

“This, child—­stop here and look after the dinner while I run round to speak to monsieur.”

“He is down below, talking with poor Mme. Cibot, that is crying her eyes out,” said Mme. Cantinet.

La Sauvage dashed down in such headlong haste that the stairs trembled beneath her tread.

“Monsieur!” she called, and drew him aside a few paces to point out Topinard.