that you pay me nothing; you will want three thousand francs, and where
are they to come from? Upon my word, do you know what I should do in
your place? I should not think twice, I should just sell seven or eight
good-for-nothing pictures and put up some of those instead that are
standing in your closet with their faces to the wall for want of room.
One picture or another, what difference does it make?”
“Und vy?”
“He is so cunning. It is his illness, for he is a lamb when he is well.
He is capable of getting up and prying about; and if by any chance he
went into the salon, he is so weak that he could not go beyond the door;
he would see that they are all still there.”
“Drue!”
“And when he is quite well, we will tell him about the sale. And if you
wish to confess, throw it all upon me, say that you were obliged to pay
me. Come! I have a broad back--”
“I cannot tispose of dings dot are not mine,” the good German answered
simply.
“Very well. I will summons you, you and M. Pons.”
“It vould kill him--”
“Take your choice! Dear me, sell the pictures and tell him about it
afterwards... you can show him the summons--”
“Ver’ goot. Summons us. Dot shall pe mine egscuse. I shall show him der
chudgment.”
Mme. Cibot went down to the court, and that very day at seven o’clock
she called to Schmucke. Schmucke found himself confronted with M.
Tabareau the bailiff, who called upon him to pay. Schmucke made answer,
trembling from head to foot, and was forthwith summoned together with
Pons, to appear in the county court to hear judgment against him. The
sight of the bailiff and a bit of stamped paper covered with scrawls
produced such an effect upon Schmucke, that he held out no longer.
“Sell die bictures,” he said, with tears in his eyes.
Next morning, at six o’clock, Elie Magus and Remonencq took down the
paintings of their choice. Two receipts for two thousand five hundred
francs were made out in correct form:--
“I, the undersigned, representing M. Pons, acknowledge the receipt
of two thousand five hundred francs from M. Elie Magus for the four
pictures sold to him, the said sum being appropriated to the use of M.
Pons. The first picture, attributed to Durer, is a portrait of a woman;
the second, likewise a portrait, is of the Italian School; the third,
a Dutch landscape by Breughel; and the fourth, a _Holy Family_ by an
unknown master of the Florentine School.”
Remonencq’s receipt was worded in precisely the same way; a Greuze, a
Claude Lorraine, a Rubens, and a Van Dyck being disguised as pictures of
the French and Flemish schools.
“Der monny makes me beleef dot the chimcracks haf som value,” said
Schmucke when the five thousand francs were paid over.
“They are worth something,” said Remonencq. “I would willingly give you
a hundred thousand francs for the lot.”
Remonencq, asked to do a trifling service, hung eight pictures of the
proper size in the same frames, taking them from among the less valuable
pictures in Schmucke’s bedroom.
No sooner was Elie Magus in possession of the four great pictures than
he went, taking La Cibot with him, under pretence of settling accounts.
But he pleaded poverty, he found fault with the pictures, they needed
rebacking, he offered La Cibot thirty thousand francs by way of
commission, and finally dazzled her with the sheets of paper on which
the Bank of France engraves the words “One thousand francs” in capital
letters. Magus thereupon condemned Remonencq to pay the like sum to La
Cibot, by lending him the money on the security of his four pictures,
which he took with him as a guarantee. So glorious were they, that Magus
could not bring himself to part with them, and next day he bought them
of Remonencq for six thousand francs over and above the original price,
and an invoice was duly made out for the four. Mme. Cibot, the richer
by sixty-eight thousand francs, once more swore her two accomplices to
absolute secrecy. Then she asked the Jew’s advice. She wanted to invest
the money in such a way that no one should know of it.
“Buy shares in the Orleans Railway,” said he; “they are thirty francs
below par, you will double your capital in three years. They will give
you scraps of paper, which you keep safe in a portfolio.”
“Stay here, M. Magus. I will go and fetch the man of business who acts
for M. Pons’ family. He wants to know how much you will give him for the
whole bag of tricks upstairs. I will go for him now.”
“If only she were a widow!” said Remonencq when she was gone. “She would
just suit me; she will have plenty of money now--”
“Especially if she puts her money into the Orleans Railway; she will
double her capital in two years’ time. I have put all my poor little
savings into it,” added the Jew, “for my daughter’s portion.--Come, let
us take a turn on the boulevard until this lawyer arrives.”
“Cibot is very bad as it is,” continued Remonencq; “if it should please
God to take him to Himself, I should have a famous wife to keep a shop;
I could set up on a large scale--”
“Good-day, M. Fraisier,” La Cibot began in an ingratiating tone as she
entered her legal adviser’s office. “Why, what is this that your porter
has been telling me? are you going to move?”
“Yes, my dear Mme. Cibot. I am taking the first floor above Dr. Poulain,
and trying to borrow two or three thousand francs so as to furnish the
place properly; it is very nice, upon my word, the landlord has just
papered and painted it. I am acting, as I told you, in President de
Marville’s interests and yours.... I am not a solicitor now; I mean
to have my name entered on the roll of barristers, and I must be well
lodged. A barrister in Paris cannot have his name on the rolls unless
he has decent furniture and books and the like. I am a doctor of law, I
have kept my terms, and have powerful interest already.... Well, how are
we getting on?”
“Perhaps you would accept my savings,” said La Cibot. “I have put them
in a savings bank. I have not much, only three thousand francs, the
fruits of twenty-five years of stinting and scraping. You might give me
a bill of exchange, as Remonencq says; for I am ignorant myself, I only
know what they tell me.”
“No. It is against the rules of the guild for a barrister (_avocat_) to
put his name to a bill. I will give you a receipt, bearing interest at
five per cent per annum, on the understanding that if I make an income
of twelve hundred francs for you out of old Pons’ estate you will cancel
it.”
La Cibot, caught in the trap, uttered not a word.
“Silence gives consent,” Fraisier continued. “Let me have it to-morrow
morning.”
“Oh! I am quite willing to pay fees in advance,” said La Cibot; “it is
one way of making sure of my money.”
Fraisier nodded. “How are you getting on?” he repeated. “I saw Poulain
yesterday; you are hurrying your invalid along, it seems.... One more
scene such as yesterday’s, and gall-stones will form. Be gentle with
him, my dear Mme. Cibot, do not lay up remorse for yourself. Life is not
too long.”
“Just let me alone with your remorse! Are you going to talk about the
guillotine again? M. Pons is a contrairy old thing. You don’t know him.
It is he that bothers me. There is not a more cross-grained man alive;
his relations are in the right of it, he is sly, revengeful, and
contrairy.... M. Magus has come, as I told you, and is waiting to see
you.”
“Right! I will be there as soon as you. Your income depends upon the
price the collection will fetch. If it brings in eight hundred thousand
francs, you shall have fifteen hundred francs a year. It is a fortune.”
“Very well. I will tell them to value the things on their consciences.”
An hour later, Pons was fast asleep. The doctor had ordered a soothing
draught, which Schmucke administered, all unconscious that La Cibot had
doubled the dose. Fraisier, Remonencq, and Magus, three gallows-birds,
were examining the seventeen hundred different objects which formed the
old musician’s collection one by one.
Schmucke had gone to bed. The three kites, drawn by the scent of a
corpse, were masters of the field.
“Make no noise,” said La Cibot whenever Magus went into ecstasies or
explained the value of some work of art to Remonencq. The dying man
slept on in the neighboring room, while greed in four different
forms appraised the treasures that he must leave behind, and waited
impatiently for him to die--a sight to wring the heart.
Three hours went by before they had finished the salon.
“On an average,” said the grimy old Jew, “everything here is worth a
thousand francs.”
“Seventeen hundred thousand francs!” exclaimed Fraisier in bewilderment.
“Not to me,” Magus answered promptly, and his eyes grew dull. “I would
not give more than a hundred thousand francs myself for the collection.
You cannot tell how long you may keep a thing on hand. ... There are
masterpieces that wait ten years for a buyer, and meanwhile the purchase
money is doubled by compound interest. Still, I should pay cash.”
“There is stained glass in the other room, as well as enamels and
miniatures and gold and silver snuff-boxes,” put in Remonencq.
“Can they be seen?” inquired Fraisier.
“I’ll see if he is sound asleep,” replied La Cibot. She made a sign, and
the three birds of prey came in.
“There are masterpieces yonder!” said Magus, indicating the salon, every
bristle of his white beard twitching as he spoke. “But the riches
are here! And what riches! Kings have nothing more glorious in royal
treasuries.”
Remonencq’s eyes lighted up till they glowed like carbuncles, at the
sight of the gold snuff-boxes. Fraisier, cool and calm as a serpent, or
some snake-creature with the power of rising erect, stood with his viper
head stretched out, in such an attitude as a painter would choose for
Mephistopheles. The three covetous beings, thirsting for gold as devils
thirst for the dew of heaven, looked simultaneously, as it chanced, at
the owner of all this wealth. Some nightmare troubled Pons; he stirred,
and suddenly, under the influence of those diabolical glances, he opened
his eyes with a shrill cry.
“Thieves!... There they are!... Help! Murder! Help!”
The nightmare was evidently still upon him, for he sat up in bed,
staring before him with blank, wide-open eyes, and had not the power to
move.
Elie Magus and Remonencq made for the door, but a word glued them to the
spot.
“_Magus_ here!... I am betrayed!”
Instinctively the sick man had known that his beloved pictures were in
danger, a thought that touched him at least as closely as any dread for
himself, and he awoke. Fraisier meanwhile did not stir.
“Mme. Cibot! who is that gentleman?” cried Pons, shivering at the sight.
“Goodness me! how could I put him out of the door?” she inquired, with
a wink and gesture for Fraisier’s benefit. “This gentleman came just a
minute ago, from your family.”
Fraisier could not conceal his admiration for La Cibot.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I have come on behalf of Mme. la Presidente de
Marville, her husband, and her daughter, to express their regret. They
learned quite by accident that you are ill, and they would like to nurse
you themselves. They want you to go to Marville and get well there. Mme.
la Vicomtesse Popinot, the little Cecile that you love so much, will be
your nurse. She took your part with her mother. She convinced Mme. de
Marville that she had made a mistake.”
“So my next-of-kin have sent you to me, have they?” Pons exclaimed
indignantly, “and sent the best judge and expert in all Paris with you
to show you the way? Oh! a nice commission!” he cried, bursting into
wild laughter. “You have come to value my pictures and curiosities, my
snuff-boxes and miniatures!... Make your valuation. You have a man there
who understands everything, and more--he can buy everything, for he is
a millionaire ten times over.... My dear relatives will not have long
to wait,” he added, with bitter irony, “they have choked the last breath
out of me.... Ah! Mme. Cibot, you said you were a mother to me, and you
bring dealers into the house, and my competitor and the Camusots, while
I am asleep!... Get out, all of you!--”
The unhappy man was beside himself with anger and fear; he rose from the
bed and stood upright, a gaunt, wasted figure.
“Take my arm, sir,” said La Cibot, rushing to the rescue, lest Pons
should fall. “Pray calm yourself, the gentlemen are gone.”
“I want to see the salon....” said the death-stricken man. La Cibot made
a sign to the three ravens to take flight. Then she caught up Pons as if
he had been a feather, and put him in bed again, in spite of his cries.
When she saw that he was quite helpless and exhausted, she went to shut
the door on the staircase. The three who had done Pons to death were
still on the landing; La Cibot told them to wait. She heard Fraisier say
to Magus:
“Let me have it in writing, and sign it, both of you. Undertake to pay
nine hundred thousand francs in cash for M. Pons’ collection, and we
will see about putting you in the way of making a handsome profit.”
With that he said something to La Cibot in a voice so low that the
others could not catch it, and went down after the two dealers to the
porter’s room.
“Have they gone, Mme. Cibot?” asked the unhappy Pons, when she came back
again.
“Gone?... who?” asked she.
“Those men.”
“What men? There, now, you have seen men,” said she. “You have just
had a raving fit; if it hadn’t been for me you would have gone out the
window, and now you are still talking of men in the room. Is it always
to be like this?”
“What! was there not a gentleman here just now, saying that my relatives
had sent him?”
“Will you still stand me out?” said she. “Upon my word, do you know
where you ought to be sent?--To the asylum at Charenton. You see men--”
“Elie Magus, Remonencq, and--”
“Oh! as for Remonencq, you may have seen _him_, for he came up to tell
me that my poor Cibot is so bad that I must clear out of this and come
down. My Cibot comes first, you see. When my husband is ill, I can think
of nobody else. Try to keep quiet and sleep for a couple of hours; I
have sent for Dr. Poulain, and I will come up with him.... Take a drink
and be good--”
“Then was there no one in the room just now, when I waked?...”
“No one,” said she. “You must have seen M. Remonencq in one of your
looking-glasses.”
“You are right, Mme. Cibot,” said Pons, meek as a lamb.
“Well, now you are sensible again.... Good-bye, my cherub; keep quiet, I
shall be back again in a minute.”
When Pons heard the outer door close upon her, he summoned up all his
remaining strength to rise.
“They are cheating me,” he muttered to himself, “they are robbing me!
Schmucke is a child that would let them tie him up in a sack.”
The terrible scene had seemed so real, it could not be a dream, he
thought; a desire to throw light upon the puzzle excited him; he managed
to reach the door, opened it after many efforts, and stood on the
threshold of his salon. There they were--his dear pictures, his statues,
his Florentine bronzes, his porcelain; the sight of them revived him.
The old collector walked in his dressing-gown along the narrow spaces
between the credence-tables and the sideboards that lined the wall; his
feet bare, his head on fire. His first glance of ownership told him that
everything was there; he turned to go back to bed again, when he noticed
that a Greuze portrait looked out of the frame that had held Sebastian
del Piombo’s _Templar_. Suspicion flashed across his brain, making
his dark thoughts apparent to him, as a flash of lightning marks the
outlines of the cloud-bars on a stormy sky. He looked round for the
eight capital pictures of the collection; each one of them was replaced
by another. A dark film suddenly overspread his eyes; his strength
failed him; he fell fainting upon the polished floor.
So heavy was the swoon, that for two hours he lay as he fell, till
Schmucke awoke and went to see his friend, and found him lying
unconscious in the salon. With endless pains Schmucke raised the
half-dead body and laid it on the bed; but when he came to question
the death-stricken man, and saw the look in the dull eyes and heard the
vague, inarticulate words, the good German, so far from losing his head,
rose to the very heroism of friendship. Man and child as he was, with
the pressure of despair came the inspiration of a mother’s tenderness, a
woman’s love. He warmed towels (he found towels!), he wrapped them about
Pons’ hands, he laid them over the pit of the stomach; he took the cold,
moist forehead in his hands, he summoned back life with a might of will
worthy of Apollonius of Tyana, laying kisses on his friend’s eyelids
like some Mary bending over the dead Christ, in a _pieta_ carved in
bas-relief by some great Italian sculptor. The divine effort, the
outpouring of one life into another, the work of mother and of lover,
was crowned with success. In half an hour the warmth revived Pons; he
became himself again, the hues of life returned to his eyes, suspended
faculties gradually resumed their play under the influence of artificial
heat; Schmucke gave him balm-water with a little wine in it; the spirit
of life spread through the body; intelligence lighted up the forehead so
short a while ago insensible as a stone; and Pons knew that he had been
brought back to life, by what sacred devotion, what might of friendship!
“But for you, I should die,” he said, and as he spoke he felt the good
German’s tears falling on his face. Schmucke was laughing and crying at
once.
Poor Schmucke! he had waited for those words with a frenzy of hope as
costly as the frenzy of despair; and now his strength utterly failed
him, he collapsed like a rent balloon. It was his turn to fall; he
sank into the easy-chair, clasped his hands, and thanked God in fervent
prayer. For him a miracle had just been wrought. He put no belief in the
efficacy of the prayer of his deeds; the miracle had been wrought by God
in direct answer to his cry. And yet that miracle was a natural effect,
such as medical science often records.
A sick man, surrounded by those who love him, nursed by those who wish
earnestly that he should live, will recover (other things being equal),
when another patient tended by hirelings will die. Doctors decline to
see unconscious magnetism in this phenomenon; for them it is the result
of intelligent nursing, of exact obedience to their orders; but many a
mother knows the virtue of such ardent projection of strong, unceasing
prayer.
“My good Schmucke--”
“Say nodings; I shall hear you mit mein heart... rest, rest!” said
Schmucke, smiling at him.
“Poor friend, noble creature, child of God, living in God!... The one
being that has loved me....” The words came out with pauses between
them; there was a new note, a something never heard before, in Pons’
voice. All the soul, so soon to take flight, found utterance in the
words that filled Schmucke with happiness almost like a lover’s rapture.
“Yes, yes. I shall be shtrong as a lion. I shall vork for two!”
“Listen, my good, my faithful, adorable friend. Let me speak, I have not
much time left. I am a dead man. I cannot recover from these repeated
shocks.”
Schmucke was crying like a child.
“Just listen,” continued Pons, “and cry afterwards. As a Christian, you
must submit. I have been robbed. It is La Cibot’s doing.... I ought to
open your eyes before I go; you know nothing of life.... Somebody has
taken away eight of the pictures, and they were worth a great deal of
money.”
“Vorgif me--I sold dem.”
“_You_ sold them?”
“Yes, I,” said poor Schmucke. “Dey summoned us to der court--”
“_Summoned?_.... Who summoned us?”
“Wait,” said Schmucke. He went for the bit of stamped-paper left by the
bailiff, and gave it to Pons. Pons read the scrawl through with close
attention, then he let the paper drop and lay quite silent for a while.
A close observer of the work of men’s hands, unheedful so far of the
workings of the brain, Pons finally counted out the threads of the plot
woven about him by La Cibot. The artist’s fire, the intellect that won
the Roman scholarship--all his youth came back to him for a little.
“My good Schmucke,” he said at last, “you must do as I tell you, and
obey like a soldier. Listen! go downstairs into the lodge and tell that
abominable woman that I should like to see the person sent to me by
my cousin the President; and that unless he comes, I shall leave my
collection to the Musee. Say that a will is in question.”
Schmucke went on his errand; but at the first word, La Cibot answered by
a smile.
“My good M. Schmucke, our dear invalid has had a delirious fit; he
thought that there were men in the room. On my word, as an honest woman,
no one has come from the family.”
Schmucke went back with his answer, which he repeated word for word.
“She is cleverer, more astute and cunning and wily, than I thought,”
said Pons with a smile. “She lies even in her room. Imagine it! This
morning she brought a Jew here, Elie Magus by name, and Remonencq, and a
third whom I do not know, more terrific than the other two put together.
She meant to make a valuation while I was asleep; I happened to wake,
and saw them all three, estimating the worth of my snuff-boxes. The
stranger said, indeed, that the Camusots had sent him here; I spoke to
him.... That shameless woman stood me out that I was dreaming!... My
good Schmucke, it was not a dream. I heard the man perfectly plainly; he
spoke to me.... The two dealers took fright and made for the door....
I thought that La Cibot would contradict herself--the experiment
failed.... I will lay another snare, and trap the wretched woman....
Poor Schmucke, you think that La Cibot is an angel; and for this month
past she has been killing me by inches to gain her covetous ends. I
would not believe that a woman who served us faithfully for years could
be so wicked. That doubt has been my ruin.... How much did the eight
pictures fetch?”
“Vife tausend vrancs.”
“Good heavens! they were worth twenty times as much!” cried Pons; “the
gems of the collection! I have not time now to institute proceedings;
and if I did, you would figure in court as the dupe of those rascals.
... A lawsuit would be the death of you. You do not know what justice
means--a court of justice is a sink of iniquity.... At the sight of such
horrors, a soul like yours would give way. And besides, you will have
enough. The pictures cost me forty thousand francs. I have had them for
thirty-six years.... Oh, we have been robbed with surprising dexterity.
I am on the brink of the grave, I care for nothing now but thee--for
thee, the best soul under the sun....
“I will not have you plundered; all that I have is yours. So you must
trust nobody, Schmucke, you that have never suspected any one in your
life. I know God watches over you, but He may forget for one moment,
and you will be seized like a vessel among pirates.... La Cibot is a
monster! She is killing me; and you think her an angel! You shall see
what she is. Go and ask her to give you the name of a notary, and I will
show you her with her hand in the bag.”
Schmucke listened as if Pons proclaimed an apocalypse. Could so depraved
a creature as La Cibot exist? If Pons was right, it seemed to imply that
there was no God in the world. He went right down again to Mme. Cibot.
“Mein boor vriend Bons feel so ill,” he said, “dat he vish to make his
vill. Go und pring ein nodary.”
This was said in the hearing of several persons, for Cibot’s life was
despaired of. Remonencq and his sister, two women from neighboring
porters’ lodges, two or three servants, and the lodger from the first
floor on the side next the street, were all standing outside in the
gateway.
“Oh! you can just fetch a notary yourself, and have your will made as
you please,” cried La Cibot, with tears in her eyes. “My poor Cibot is
dying, and it is no time to leave him. I would give all the Ponses in
the world to save Cibot, that has never given me an ounce of unhappiness
in these thirty years since we were married.”
And in she went, leaving Schmucke in confusion.
“Is M. Pons really seriously ill, sir?” asked the first-floor lodger,
one Jolivard, a clerk in the registrar’s office at the Palais de
Justice.
“He nearly died chust now,” said Schmucke, with deep sorrow in his
voice.
“M. Trognon lives near by in the Rue Saint-Louis,” said M. Jolivard, “he
is the notary of the quarter.”
“Would you like me to go for him?” asked Remonencq.
“I should pe fery glad,” said Schmucke; “for gif Montame Zipod cannot pe
mit mine vriend, I shall not vish to leaf him in der shtate he is in--”
“Mme. Cibot told us that he was going out of his mind,” resumed
Jolivard.
“Bons! out off his mind!” cried Schmucke, terror-stricken by the idea.
“Nefer vas he so clear in der head... dat is chust der reason vy I am
anxious for him.”