Schmucke had taken the chair which the woman brought him, and the children, stricken with sudden shyness, had gathered together to give the stranger that mute, earnest, so soon-finished scrutiny characteristic of childhood.  For a child, like a dog, is wont to judge by instinct rather than reason.  Schmucke looked up; his eyes rested on that charming little picture; he saw the performer on the tin trumpet, a little five-year-old maiden with wonderful golden hair.

“She looks like ein liddle German girl,” said Schmucke, holding out his arms to the child.

“Monsieur will not be very comfortable here,” said Mme. Topinard.  “I would propose that he should have our room at once, but I am obliged to have the children near me.”

She opened the door as she spoke, and bade Schmucke come in.  Such splendor as their abode possessed was all concentrated here.  Blue cotton curtains with a white fringe hung from the mahogany bedstead, and adorned the window; the chest of drawers, bureau, and chairs, though all made of mahogany, were neatly kept.  The clock and candlesticks on the chimneypiece were evidently the gift of the bankrupt manager, whose portrait, a truly frightful performance of Pierre Grassou’s, looked down upon the chest of drawers.  The children tried to peep in at the forbidden glories.

“Monsieur might be comfortable in here,” said their mother.

“No, no,” Schmucke replied.  “Eh!  I haf not ver’ long to lif, I only vant a corner to die in.”

The door was closed, and the three went up to the garret.  “Dis is der ding for me,” Schmucke cried at once.  “Pefore I lifd mid Bons, I vas nefer better lodged.”

“Very well.  A truckle-bed, a couple of mattresses, a bolster, a pillow, a couple of chairs, and a table—­that is all that you need to buy.  That will not ruin you—­it may cost a hundred and fifty francs, with the crockeryware and strip of carpet for the bedside.”

Everything was settled—­save the money, which was not forthcoming.  Schmucke saw that his new friends were very poor, and recollecting that the theatre was only a few steps away, it naturally occurred to him to apply to the manager for his salary.  He went at once, and found Gaudissart in his office.  Gaudissart received him in the somewhat stiffly polite manner which he reserved for professionals.  Schmucke’s demand for a month’s salary took him by surprise, but on inquiry he found that it was due.

“Oh, confound it, my good man, a German can always count, even if he has tears in his eyes. . . .  I thought that you would have taken the thousand francs that I sent you into account, as a final year’s salary, and that we were quits.”

“We haf receifed nodings,” said Schmucke; “und gif I komm to you, it ees because I am in der shtreet, und haf not ein benny.  How did you send us der bonus?”

“By your portress.”

“By Montame Zipod!” exclaimed Schmucke.  “She killed Bons, she robbed him, she sold him—­she tried to purn his vill—­she is a pad creature, a monster!”