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Updated: June 14, 2025
Towards two o'clock, however, as nothing had been seen of the old German, La Cibot sent Remonencq's sister to see whether Schmucke wanted anything; prompted not so much by interest as by curiosity. The Abbe Duplanty had just heard the old musician's dying confession, and the administration of the sacrament of extreme unction was disturbed by repeated ringing of the door-bell.
"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."
He has his father's house property, supposed to be worth another million, and he has let the Grand Hotel de Hollande already to a cousin of the Graffs." "You look sad ven you look at your friend," remarked Schmucke, who had listened with great interest. "Kann you pe chealous of him?" "I am jealous for Fritz's happiness," said Wilhelm. "Does that face look as if it belonged to a happy man?
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.
Doctors decline to see unconscious magnetism in this phenomenon; for them it is the result of intelligent nursing, of exact obedience to their orders; but many a mother knows the virtue of such ardent projection of strong, unceasing prayer. "My good Schmucke " "Say nodings; I shall hear you mit mein heart . . . rest, rest!" said Schmucke, smiling at him.
About half-past ten that evening Pons and Schmucke found themselves sitting on a bench out in the garden, with the ex-flute between them; they were explaining their characters, opinions, and misfortunes, with no very clear idea as to why or how they had come to this point.
"Lord love you," said she, "for three francs and wine extra I can give you both such a dinner every day that you will be ready to lick the plates as clean as if they were washed." "It is a fact," Schmucke remarked, "dat die dinners dat Montame Zipod cooks for me are better as de messes dey eat at der royal dable!"
The old man, depressed and visibly failing, had given place to the serenely contented Pons, who entered the Presidente's house that October afternoon with the Marquise de Pompadour's fan in his pocket. Schmucke, on the other hand, pondered deeply over this phenomenon, and could not understand it; your true stoic never can understand the courtier that dwells in a Frenchman.
Fifteen minutes later she reappeared in the dining-room with two cups of excellent coffee, flanked by a couple of tiny glasses of kirschwasser. "Long lif Montame Zipod!" cried Schmucke; "she haf guessed right!" The diner-out bemoaned himself a little, while Schmucke met his lamentations with coaxing fondness, like a home pigeon welcoming back a wandering bird.
It will divert your thoughts; your gloomy ideas will vanish, and for me the dark hours will be filled with your dreams. . . ." Schmucke sat down at the piano.
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