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Updated: April 30, 2025
Cibot, too, had made immense progress in his esteem in those three weeks; without her he felt that he should have been utterly lost; for as for Schmucke, the poor invalid looked upon him as a second Pons. La Cibot's prodigious art consisted in expressing Pons' own ideas, and this she did quite unconsciously.
Well, my dear sir, she saved his life, he married her, and they have a fine child; Ma'am Bordevin, the butcher's wife in the Rue Charlot, a relative of hers, stood godmother. There is luck for you! "As for me, I am married; and if I have no children, I don't mind saying that it is Cibot's fault; he is too fond of me, but if I cared never mind.
Just you leave your lodge as soon as you have lined your purse here, and you shall see what will become of us both." "Lined my purse!" cried Cibot. "I am incapable of taking the worth of a single pin; you mind that, Remonencq! I am known in the neighborhood for an honest woman, I am." La Cibot's eyes flashed fire.
He died, as men must, and well, his genuine pictures did not fetch more than two hundred thousand francs! You must let me see these gentlemen. Now for the next-of-kin," and Fraisier again relapsed into his attitude of listener. When President Camusot's name came up, he nodded with a grimace which riveted Mme. Cibot's attention.
Cibot was sweeping the yard, the doorstep, and the pavement just as his neighbor was taking down the shutters and displaying his wares; for since Pons fell ill, La Cibot's work had fallen to her husband. The Auvergnat began to look upon the little, swarthy, stunted, copper-colored tailor as the one obstacle in his way, and pondered how to be rid of him.
The little copper-faced tailor's wife adored her husband; he had no money and no enemies; La Cibot's fortune and the marine-store dealer's motives were alike hidden in the shade.
"Oh, it is the nutcracker!" said one, "the musician, you know " "Who can the pall-bearers be?" "Pooh! play-actors." "I say, just look at poor old Cibot's funeral. There is one worker the less. What a man! he could never get enough of work!" "He never went out." "He never kept Saint Monday." "How fond he was of his wife!" "Ah! There is an unhappy woman!"
He took La Cibot's hand and clasped it to his breast. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "There, that will do, Papa Schmucke; how funny you are! This is too bad. I am an old daughter of the people my heart is in my hand. I have something here, you see, like you have, hearts of gold that you are," she added, slapping her chest. "Baba Schmucke!" continued the musician. "No.
Villemot had given his word that Pons' heir should be left in peace; he watched over his client, and gave the requisite sums; and Cibot's humble bier, escorted by sixty or eighty persons, drew all the crowd after it to the cemetery.
Dr. Poulain's first suspicions were effaced by this thought. Who could have any possible interest in Cibot's death? His wife? the doctor saw her taste the herb-tea as she sweetened it.
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