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Updated: May 16, 2025
Cibot, convinced that the Auvergnats were wretchedly poor, used to let them have the remainder of "her gentlemen's" dinners at ridiculous prices. The Remonencqs would buy a pound of broken bread, crusts and crumbs, for a farthing, a porringer-full of cold potatoes for something less, and other scraps in proportion.
"But M. Pons never liked me, he always hated me. Besides, he thinks perhaps that I want to be mentioned in his will " "Hush! you vill kill him!" cried Schmucke. "Good-bye, sir," said La Cibot, with a withering look at Pons. "You may keep well for all the harm I wish you. When you can speak to me pleasantly, when you can believe that what I do is done for the best, I will come back again.
In the very beginning, when I saw how you were with M. Schmucke, I said to myself, 'M. Pons has missed the life he was meant for; he was made to be a good husband. Come, now, you like women." "Ah, yes," said Pons, "and no woman has been mine." "Really?" exclaimed La Cibot, with a provocative air as she came nearer and took Pons' hand in hers.
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.
La Cibot shut the door and returned with the sealed packet in her hand. She had quite made up her mind to burn it; but as she went towards the bedroom fireplace, she felt the grasp of a hand on each arm, and saw Schmucke on one hand, and Pons himself on the other, leaning against the partition wall on either side of the door.
His is the more frank comedy; his methods of action fathom depths of personal interest quite as profound as any that plenipotentiaries can explore in their difficult search for any means of breaking up the best cemented alliances. "I have set La Cibot nicely on fire," Remonencq told his sister, when she came to take up her position again on the ramshackle chair.
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.
In time Cibot ceased to work for the master tailors; he made a connection among the little trades-people of the quarter, and enjoyed a monopoly of the repairs, renovations, and fine drawing of all the coats and trousers in three adjacent streets.
When Pons knew that La Cibot had robbed him, he bade farewell, like a Christian, to the pomps and vanities of Art, to his collection, to all his old friendships with the makers of so many fair things. Our forefathers counted the day of death as a Christian festival, and in something of the same spirit Pons' thoughts turned to the coming end.
"Eh! but vat did der doctor say?" Schmucke demanded furiously, stamping on the floor for the first time in his life. "Well," said Mme. Cibot, drawing Schmucke into the dining-room, "he just said this that our dear, darling love lying ill there would die if he wasn't carefully nursed; but I am here, in spite of all your brutality, for brutal you were, you that I thought so gentle.
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