“A debt!” said Gaudissart to himself.  What a shark it is!  He is worse than an eldest son.  He will invent a bill or two next!  We must cut this short.  This Fraisier cannot take large views.—­What debt is this, my good man?  Speak out.”

“Dere vas but von mann dot haf mourned Bons mit me. . . .  He haf a tear liddle girl mit wunderschones haar; it vas as if I saw mein boor Deutschland dot I should nefer haf left. . . .  Baris is no blace for die Germans; dey laugh at dem” (with a little nod as he spoke, and the air of a man who knows something of life in this world below).

“He is off his head,” Gaudissart said to himself.  And a sudden pang of pity for this poor innocent before him brought a tear to the manager’s eyes.

“Ah! you understand, mennesir le directeur!  Ver’ goot.  Dat mann mit die liddle taughter is Dobinard, vat tidies der orchestra and lights die lamps.  Bons vas fery fond of him, und helped him.  He vas der only von dat accombanied mein only friend to die church und to die grafe. . . .  I vant dree tausend vrancs for him, und dree tausend for die liddle von—­”

“Poor fellow!” said Gaudissart to himself.

Rough, self-made man though he was, he felt touched by this nobleness of nature, by a gratitude for a mere trifle, as the world views it; though for the eyes of this divine innocence the trifle, like Bossuet’s cup of water, was worth more than the victories of great captains.  Beneath all Gaudissart’s vanity, beneath the fierce desire to succeed in life at all costs, to rise to the social level of his old friend Popinot, there lay a warm heart and a kindly nature.  Wherefore he canceled his too hasty judgments and went over to Schmucke’s side.

“You shall have it all!  But I will do better still, my dear Schmucke.  Topinard is a good sort—­”

“Yes.  I haf chust peen to see him in his boor home, vere he ees happy mit his children—­”

“I will give him the cashier’s place.  Old Baudrand is going to leave.”

“Ah!  Gott pless you!” cried Schmucke.

“Very well, my good, kind fellow, meet me at Berthier’s office about four o’clock this afternoon.  Everything shall be ready, and you shall be secured from want for the rest of your days.  You shall draw your six thousand francs, and you shall have the same salary with Garangeot that you used to have with Pons.”

“No,” Schmucke answered.  “I shall not lif. . . .  I haf no heart for anydings; I feel that I am attacked—­”

“Poor lamb!” Gaudissart muttered to himself as the German took his leave.  “But, after all, one lives on mutton; and, as the sublime Beranger says, ‘Poor sheep! you were made to be shorn,’” and he hummed the political squib by way of giving vent to his feelings.  Then he rang for the office-boy.

“Call my carriage,” he said.

“Rue de Hanovre,” he told the coachman.

The man of ambitions by this time had reappeared; he saw the way to the Council of State lying straight before him.