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Updated: June 14, 2025
"This gentleman was in such deep grief that he could think of nothing. And there is only one relative." The master of the ceremonies looked compassionately at Schmucke; this expert in sorrow knew real grief when he saw it. He went across to him. "Come, take heart, my dear sir. Think of paying honor to your friend's memory."
"Wipe your tears; they do me honor; this is my reward," said La Cibot, melodramatically. "There isn't no more disinterested creature on earth than me; but don't you go into the room with tears in your eyes, or M. Pons will be thinking himself worse than he is." Schmucke was touched by this delicate feeling. He took La Cibot's hand and gave it a final squeeze.
She quickly slipped the notes into her muff and recalled her radiant master from the ethereal spheres to which he soared, by laying her hand upon his shoulder. "My good Schmucke " she said. "Going already?" he cried. "Ah! why did you come?" He did not murmur, but he sat up like a faithful dog who listens to his mistress.
Accustomed daily to superintend funerals, to move among families plunged in one and the same kind of tribulation, real or feigned, this man, like the rest of his fraternity, spoke in hushed and soothing tones; he was decorous, polished, and formal, like an allegorical stone figure of Death. Schmucke quivered through every nerve as if he were confronting his executioner.
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.
Remonencq begged the agent to help him, and together they pulled Schmucke towards the balustrade, behind which the registrar shelters himself from the mourning public. Remonencq, Schmucke's Providence, was assisted by Dr. Poulain, who filled in the necessary information as to Pons' age and birthplace; the German knew but one thing that Pons was his friend.
A man cannot die like a dog in the capital of the civilized world." Schmucke opened wide eyes of dismay. A brief fit of madness seized him. "But Bons shall not tie!..." he cried aloud. "I shall safe him!" "You cannot go without sleep much longer, and who will take your place? Some one must look after M. Pons, and give him drink, and nurse him " "Ah! dat is drue."
That night the poor child, with La Bougival's help, cut off a sufficient quantity of her long and beautiful blond hair to make a chain; and the next day she persuaded old Schmucke, the music-master, to take it to Paris and have the chain made and returned by the following Sunday.
Life is hard for every one; I have seen people who had all that I wanted so much and could not have, and yet they were not happy.... Then at the end of my life, God put untold comfort in my way, when He gave me such a friend.... And one thing I have not to reproach myself with that I have not known your worth nor appreciated you, my good Schmucke.... I have loved you with my whole heart, with all the strength of love that is in me.... Do not cry, Schmucke; I shall say no more if you cry and it is so sweet to me to talk of ourselves to you.... If I had listened to you, I should not be dying.
"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.
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