“No need to tell me anything twice,” said the Cardinal, opening the door and making, as they say, a false exit.  “Ah ca!” she said, coming back; “what does he burn in his stove, supposing I want to heat some remedy for him?”

“Goodness!” said the portress, “he doesn’t make much provision for winter, and here we are in the middle of summer!”

“And not a saucepan! not a pot, even!  Gracious! what a way to live.  I’ll have to fetch him some provisions; I hope nobody will see the things I bring back; I’d be ashamed they should—­”

“I’ll lend you a hand-bag,” said the portress, always ready and officious.

“No, I’ll buy a basket,” replied the fishwife, more anxious about what she expected to carry away than what she was about to bring home to the pauper.  “There must be some Auvergnat in the neighborhood who sells wood,” she added.

“Corner of the rue Ferou; you’ll find one there.  A fine establishment, with logs of wood painted in a kind of an arcade all round the shop —­so like, you’d think they were going to speak to you.”

Before going finally off, Madame Cardinal went through a piece of very deep hypocrisy.  We have seen how she hesitated about leaving the portress alone with the sick man:—­

“Madame Perrache,” she said to her, “you won’t leave him, the poor darling, will you, till I get back?”

It may have been noticed that Cerizet had not decided on any definite course of action in the new affair he was now undertaking.  The part of doctor, which for a moment he thought of assuming, frightened him, and he gave himself out, as we have seen, to Madame Perrache as the business agent of his accomplice.  Once alone, he began to see that his original idea complicated with a doctor, a nurse, and a notary, presented the most serious difficulties.  A regular will drawn in favor of Madame Cardinal was not a thing to be improvised in a moment.  It would take some time to acclimatize the idea in the surly and suspicious mind of the old pauper, and death, which was close at hand, might play them a trick at any moment, and balk the most careful preparations.

It was true that unless a will were made the income of eight thousand francs on the Grand Livre and the house in the rue Notre-Dame de Nazareth would go to the heirs-at-law, and Madame Cardinal would get only her share of the property; but the abandonment of this visible portion of the inheritance was the surest means of laying hands on the invisible part of it.  Besides, if the latter were secured, what hindered their returning to the idea of a will?

Resolving, therefore, to confine the operation to the simplest terms at first, Cerizet summed them up in the manoeuvre of the poppy-heads, already mentioned, and he was making his way back to Toupillier’s abode, armed with that single weapon of war, intending to give Madame Cardinal further instructions, when he met her, bearing on her arm the basket she had just bought; and in that basket was the sick man’s panacea.