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Updated: June 14, 2025
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."
In his eagerness, Schmucke, usually so full of respect for the powers that be, so far forgot himself as to imitate the irreverent newspapers which scoffed at the "fixed-price" dinners of Royalty. "Really?" said Pons. "Very well, I will try to-morrow."
Pons therefore introduced Schmucke to the company as copier of music, a humble calling which requires no small musical knowledge; and Schmucke, acting on Pons' advice, came to an understanding with the chef-de-service at the Opera-Comique, so saving himself the clerical drudgery. The partnership between Pons and Schmucke produced one brilliant result.
"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.
You were young once, you had your fling, there is some love-child of yours somewhere cold, and starving, and homeless. . . . What monsters men are! Their love doesn't last only for a day, and then in a jiffy they forget, they don't so much as think of the child at the breast for months. . . . Poor women!" "But no one has ever loved me except Schmucke and my mother," poor Pons broke in sadly.
Savinien, Bongrand, the abbe and his two assistant priests, the Nemours doctor, and Mesdames Zelie Minoret, Massin, and Cremiere, together with old Schmucke, were the guests at a grand dinner which preceded the ball. "I feel I am going," said the old man to the notary towards the close of the evening.
"I vould gif a goot teal to amuse him," said Schmucke, "he gets so dull." "M. Pons always seems so much above the like of us poor devils, that, upon my word, I didn't dare to ask him to my wedding," said Wilhelm Schwab. "I am going to be married " "How?" demanded Schmucke.
No one cared to know the composer's name; like occupants of the baignoires, lost to view of the house, to gain a view of the stage, Pons and Schmucke eclipsed themselves by their success.
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.
And Schmucke would dream of curing his friend of his degrading vice, for a true friend's instinct in all that belongs to the inner life is unerring as a dog's sense of smell; a friend knows by intuition the trouble in his friend's soul, and guesses at the cause and ponders it in his heart.
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