“But that is M. Schmucke’s own room,” remonstrated La Sauvage, springing in front of the door.

“We found the lease among the papers,” Fraisier said ruthlessly; “there was no mention of M. Schmucke in it; it is taken out in M. Pons’ name only.  The whole place, and every room in it, is a part of the estate.  And besides”—­flinging open the door—­“look here, monsieur le juge de la paix, it is full of pictures.”

“So it is,” answered the justice of the peace, and Fraisier thereupon gained his point.

“Wait a bit, gentlemen,” said Villemot.  “Do you know that you are turning the universal legatee out of doors, and as yet his right has not been called in question?”

“Yes, it has,” said Fraisier; “we are opposing the transfer of the property.”

“And upon what grounds?”

“You shall know that by and by, my boy,” Fraisier replied, banteringly.  “At this moment, if the legatee withdraws everything that he declares to be his, we shall raise no objections, but the room itself will be sealed.  And M. Schmucke may lodge where he pleases.”

“No,” said Villemot; “M.  Schmucke is going to stay in his room.”

“And how?”

“I shall demand an immediate special inquiry,” continued Villemot, “and prove that we pay half the rent.  You shall not turn us out.  Take away the pictures, decide on the ownership of the various articles, but here my client stops—­’my boy.’”

“I shall go out!” the old musician suddenly said.  He had recovered energy during the odious dispute.

“You had better,” said Fraisier.  “Your course will save expense to you, for your contention would not be made good.  The lease is evidence—­”

“The lease! the lease!” cried Villemot, “it is a question of good faith—­”

“That could only be proved in a criminal case, by calling witnesses.  —­Do you mean to plunge into experts’ fees and verifications, and orders to show cause why judgment should not be given, and law proceedings generally?”

“No, no!” cried Schmucke in dismay.  “I shall turn out; I am used to it—­”

In practice Schmucke was a philosopher, an unconscious cynic, so greatly had he simplified his life.  Two pairs of shoes, a pair of boots, a couple of suits of clothes, a dozen shirts, a dozen bandana handkerchiefs, four waistcoats, a superb pipe given to him by Pons, with an embroidered tobacco-pouch—­these were all his belongings.  Overwrought by a fever of indignation, he went into his room and piled his clothes upon a chair.

“All dese are mine,” he said, with simplicity worthy of Cincinnatus.  “Der biano is also mine.”

Fraisier turned to La Sauvage.  “Madame, get help,” he said; “take that piano out and put it on the landing.”

“You are too rough into the bargain,” said Villemot, addressing Fraisier.  “The justice of the peace gives orders here; he is supreme.”

“There are valuables in the room,” put in the clerk.