eutschland dot I should nefer haf left.... Baris is no blace for die
Germans; dey laugh at dem" (with a little nod as he spoke, and the air
of a man who knows something of life in this world below).

"He is off his head," Gaudissart said to himself. And a sudden pang of
pity for this poor innocent before him brought a tear to the manager's
eyes.

"Ah! you understand, mennesir le directeur! Ver' goot. Dat mann mit die
liddle taughter is Dobinard, vat tidies der orchestra and lights die
lamps. Bons vas fery fond of him, und helped him. He vas der only von
dat accombanied mein only friend to die church und to die grafe.... I
vant dree tausend vrancs for him, und dree tausend for die liddle von--"

"Poor fellow!" said Gaudissart to himself.

Rough, self-made man though he was, he felt touched by this nobleness of
nature, by a gratitude for a mere trifle, as the world views it; though
for the eyes of this divine innocence the trifle, like Bossuet's cup of
water, was worth more than the victories of great captains. Beneath all
Gaudissart's vanity, beneath the fierce desire to succeed in life at all
costs, to rise to the social level of his old friend Popinot, there lay
a warm heart and a kindly nature. Wherefore he canceled his too hasty
judgments and went over to Schmucke's side.

"You shall have it all! But I will do better still, my dear Schmucke.
Topinard is a good sort--"

"Yes. I haf chust peen to see him in his boor home, vere he ees happy
mit his children--"

"I will give him the cashier's place. Old Baudrand is going to leave."

"Ah! Gott pless you!" cried Schmucke.

"Very well, my good, kind fellow, meet me at Berthier's office about
four o'clock this afternoon. Everything shall be ready, and you shall
be secured from want for the rest of your days. You shall draw your six
thousand francs, and you shall have the same salary with Garangeot that
you used to have with Pons."

"No," Schmucke answered. "I shall not lif.... I haf no heart for
anydings; I feel that I am attacked--"

"Poor lamb!" Gaudissart muttered to himself as the German took his
leave. "But, after all, one lives on mutton; and, as the sublime
Beranger says, 'Poor sheep! you were made to be shorn,'" and he hummed
the political squib by way of giving vent to his feelings. Then he rang
for the office-boy.

"Call my carriage," he said.

"Rue de Hanovre," he told the coachman.

The man of ambitions by this time had reappeared; he saw the way