“And was I in charge of the pictures?” demanded La Cibot.

“No; but you were in a position of trust.  You were M. Pons’ housekeeper, you looked after his affairs, and he has been robbed—­”

“Robbed!  Let me tell you this, sir:  M. Schmucke sold the pictures, by M. Pons’ orders, to meet expenses.”

“And to whom?”

“To Messrs. Elie Magus and Remonencq.”

“For how much?”

“I am sure I do not remember.”

“Look here, my dear madame; you have been feathering your nest, and very snugly.  I shall keep an eye upon you; I have you safe.  Help me, I will say nothing!  In any case, you know that since you deemed it expedient to plunder M. le President Camusot, you ought not to expect anything from him.”

“I was sure that this would all end in smoke, for me,” said La Cibot, mollified by the words “I will say nothing.”

Remonencq chimed in at this point.

“Here are you finding fault with Mme. Cibot; that is not right!” he said.  “The pictures were sold by private treaty between M. Pons, M. Magus, and me.  We waited for three days before we came to terms with the deceased; he slept on his pictures.  We took receipts in proper form; and if we gave Madame Cibot a few forty-franc pieces, it is the custom of the trade—­we always do so in private houses when we conclude a bargain.  Ah! my dear sir, if you think to cheat a defenceless woman, you will not make a good bargain!  Do you understand, master lawyer?—­M.  Magus rules the market, and if you do not come down off the high horse, if you do not keep your word to Mme. Cibot, I shall wait till the collection is sold, and you shall see what you will lose if you have M. Magus and me against you; we can get the dealers in a ring.  Instead of realizing seven or eight hundred thousand francs, you will not so much as make two hundred thousand.”

“Good, good, we shall see.  We are not going to sell; or if we do, it will be in London.”

“We know London,” said Remonencq.  “M.  Magus is as powerful there as at Paris.”

“Good-day, madame; I shall sift these matters to the bottom,” said Fraisier—­“unless you continue to do as I tell you” he added.

“You little pickpocket!—­”

“Take care!  I shall be a justice of the peace before long.”  And with threats understood to the full upon either side, they separated.

“Thank you, Remonencq!” said La Cibot; “it is very pleasant to a poor widow to find a champion.”

Towards ten o’clock that evening, Gaudissart sent for Topinard.  The manager was standing with his back to the fire, in a Napoleonic attitude—­a trick which he had learned since be began to command his army of actors, dancers, figurants, musicians, and stage carpenters.  He grasped his left-hand brace with his right hand, always thrust into his waistcoat; he head was flung far back, his eyes gazed out into space.