“And besides,” added the justice of the peace, “M.  Schmucke is going out of his own free will.”

“Did any one ever see such a client!” Villemot cried indignantly, turning upon Schmucke.  “You are as limp as a rag—­”

“Vat dos it matter vere von dies?” Schmucke said as he went out.  “Dese men haf tiger faces. . . .  I shall send somebody to vetch mein bits of dings.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“Vere it shall blease Gott,” returned Pons’ universal legatee with supreme indifference.

“Send me word,” said Villemot.

Fraisier turned to the head-clerk.  “Go after him,” he whispered.

Mme. Cantinet was left in charge, with a provision of fifty francs paid out of the money that they found.  The justice of the peace looked out; there Schmucke stood in the courtyard looking up at the windows for the last time.

“You have found a man of butter,” remarked the justice.

“Yes,” said Fraisier, “yes.  The thing is as good as done.  You need not hesitate to marry your granddaughter to Poulain; he will be head-surgeon at the Quinze-Vingts.” (The Asylum founded by St. Louis for three hundred blind people.)

“We shall see.—­Good-day, M. Fraisier,” said the justice of the peace with a friendly air.

“There is a man with a head on his shoulders,” remarked the justice’s clerk.  “The dog will go a long way.”

By this time it was eleven o’clock.  The old German went like an automaton down the road along which Pons and he had so often walked together.  Wherever he went he saw Pons, he almost thought that Pons was by his side; and so he reached the theatre just as his friend Topinard was coming out of it after a morning spent in cleaning the lamps and meditating on the manager’s tyranny.

“Oh, shoost der ding for me!” cried Schmucke, stopping his acquaintance.  “Dopinart! you haf a lodging someveres, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A home off your own?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you villing to take me for ein poarder?  Oh!  I shall pay ver’ vell; I haf nine hundert vrancs of inkomm, und—­I haf not ver’ long ter lif. . . .  I shall gif no drouble vatefer. . . .  I can eat onydings—­I only vant to shmoke mein bipe.  Und—­you are der only von dat haf shed a tear for Bons, mit me; und so, I lof you.”

“I should be very glad, sir; but, to begin with, M. Gaudissart has given me a proper wigging—­”

“Vigging?”

“That is one way of saying that he combed my hair for me.”

“Combed your hair?”

“He gave me a scolding for meddling in your affairs. . . .  So we must be very careful if you come to me.  But I doubt whether you will stay when you have seen the place; you do not know how we poor devils live.”

“I should rader der boor home of a goot-hearted mann dot haf mourned Bons, dan der Duileries mit men dot haf ein tiger face. . . .  I haf chust left tigers in Bons’ house; dey vill eat up everydings—­”