“Why are you here?” Gaudissart began.  “So you have no mind to be cashier at the theatre?  Discretion is a cashier’s first recommendation.”

“Sir—­”

“Just mind your own business; you will never be anything if you meddle in other people’s affairs.”

“Sir, I cannot eat bread if every mouthful of it is to stick in my throat. . . .  Monsieur Schmucke!—­M.  Schmucke!” he shouted aloud.

Schmucke came out at the sound of Topinard’s voice.  He had just signed.  He held the money in his hand.

“Thees ees for die liddle German maiden und for you,” he said.

“Oh! my dear M. Schmucke, you have given away your wealth to inhuman wretches, to people who are trying to take away your good name.  I took this paper to a good man, an attorney who knows this Fraisier, and he says that you ought to punish such wickedness; you ought to let them summon you and leave them to get out of it.—­Read this,” and Schmucke’s imprudent friend held out the summons delivered in the Cite Bordin.

Standing in the notary’s gateway, Schmucke read the document, saw the imputations made against him, and, all ignorant as he was of the amenities of the law, the blow was deadly.  The little grain of sand stopped his heart’s beating.  Topinard caught him in his arms, hailed a passing cab, and put the poor German into it.  He was suffering from congestion of the brain; his eyes were dim, his head was throbbing, but he had enough strength left to put the money into Topinard’s hands.

Schmucke rallied from the first attack, but he never recovered consciousness, and refused to eat.  Ten days afterwards he died without a complaint; to the last he had not spoken a word.  Mme. Topinard nursed him, and Topinard laid him by Pons’ side.  It was an obscure funeral; Topinard was the only mourner who followed the son of Germany to his last resting-place.

Fraisier, now a justice of the peace, is very intimate with the President’s family, and much valued by the Presidente.  She could not think of allowing him to marry “that girl of Tabareau’s,” and promised infinitely better things for the clever man to whom she considers she owes not merely the pasture-land and the English cottage at Marville, but also the President’s seat in the Chamber of Deputies, for M. le President was returned at the general election in 1846.

Every one, no doubt, wishes to know what became of the heroine of a story only too veracious in its details; a chronicle which, taken with its twin sister the preceding volume, La Cousine Bette, proves that Character is a great social force.  You, O amateurs, connoisseurs, and dealers, will guess at once that Pons’ collection is now in question.  Wherefore it will suffice if we are present during a conversation that took place only a few days ago in Count Popinot’s house.  He was showing his splendid collection to some visitors.

“M. le Comte, you possess treasures indeed,” remarked a distinguished foreigner.