nt myself, I only
know what they tell me."

"No. It is against the rules of the guild for a barrister (_avocat_) to
put his name to a bill. I will give you a receipt, bearing interest at
five per cent per annum, on the understanding that if I make an income
of twelve hundred francs for you out of old Pons' estate you will cancel
it."

La Cibot, caught in the trap, uttered not a word.

"Silence gives consent," Fraisier continued. "Let me have it to-morrow
morning."

"Oh! I am quite willing to pay fees in advance," said La Cibot; "it is
one way of making sure of my money."

Fraisier nodded. "How are you getting on?" he repeated. "I saw Poulain
yesterday; you are hurrying your invalid along, it seems.... One more
scene such as yesterday's, and gall-stones will form. Be gentle with
him, my dear Mme. Cibot, do not lay up remorse for yourself. Life is not
too long."

"Just let me alone with your remorse! Are you going to talk about the
guillotine again? M. Pons is a contrairy old thing. You don't know him.
It is he that bothers me. There is not a more cross-grained man alive;
his relations are in the right of it, he is sly, revengeful, and
contrairy.... M. Magus has come, as I told you, and is waiting to see
you."

"Right! I will be there as soon as you. Your income depends upon the
price the collection will fetch. If it brings in eight hundred thousand
francs, you shall have fifteen hundred francs a year. It is a fortune."

"Very well. I will tell them to value the things on their consciences."

An hour later, Pons was fast asleep. The doctor had ordered a soothing
draught, which Schmucke administered, all unconscious that La Cibot had
doubled the dose. Fraisier, Remonencq, and Magus, three gallows-birds,
were examining the seventeen hundred different objects which formed the
old musician's collection one by one.

Schmucke had gone to bed. The three kites, drawn by the scent of a
corpse, were masters of the field.

"Make no noise," said La Cibot whenever Magus went into ecstasies or
explained the value of some work of art to Remonencq. The dying man
slept on in the neighboring room, while greed in four different
forms appraised the treasures that he must leave behind, and waited
impatiently for him to die--a sight to wring the heart.

Three hours went by before they had finished the salon.

"On an average," said the grimy old Jew, "everything here is worth a
thousand francs."

"Seventeen hundred thousa