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Updated: June 14, 2025
I am so tired mit der blaying all night, dat dis morning I am all knocked up." "My poor Cibot is very bad, too; one more day like yesterday, and he will have no strength left. . . . One can't help it; it is God's will." "You haf a heart so honest, a soul so peautiful, dot gif der Zipod die, ve shall lif togedder," said the cunning Schmucke.
Schmucke meanwhile went back to his friend Pons with the news that Cibot was dying, and Remonencq gone in search of M. Trognon, the notary. Pons was struck by the name. It had come up again and again in La Cibot's interminable talk, and La Cibot always recommended him as honesty incarnate.
"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.
You ought to let M. Schmucke know the value of all those things, for he is a man that could be cheated like a child. He has not the slightest idea of the value of these fine things that you have! He so little suspects it, that he would give them away for a morsel of bread if he did not keep them all his life for love of you, always supposing that he lives after you, for he will die of your death.
Villemot held Schmucke's arm while the master of the ceremonies invested Schmucke with the ample, dismal-looking garment worn by heirs-at-law in the procession to and from the house and the church. He tied the black silken cords under the chin, and Schmucke as heir was in "full dress."
"Schmucke never could have told you to go to the theatre without speaking to me about it " "And must I wake him, poor dear, when he is sleeping like one of the blest, and call him in as a witness?" "No, no!" cried Pons. "If my kind and loving Schmucke made the resolution, perhaps I am worse than I thought."
A single coach sufficed for Fraisier, Villemot, Schmucke, and Topinard; but the remaining two, instead of returning to the undertaker, followed in the procession to Pere-Lachaise a useless procession, not unfrequently seen; there are always too many coaches when the dead are unknown beyond their own circle and there is no crowd at the funeral.
"The collection is here in this great room, and in the bedroom of the deceased," remarked Fraisier. "Very well, let us go into the next room. Pardon us, sir; do not let us interrupt with your breakfast." The invasion struck an icy chill of terror into poor Schmucke. Fraisier's venomous glances seemed to possess some magnetic influence over his victims, like the power of a spider over a fly.
It may readily be conceived that Schmucke listened to this reckoning with amazement, for he knew about as much of business as a cat knows of music. "Montame Zipod," he expostulated, "Bons haf lost his head. Bardon him, and nurse him as before, und pe our profidence; I peg it of you on mine knees," and he knelt before La Cibot and kissed the tormentor's hands.
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.
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