t friend held out the summons delivered in the Cite Bordin.

Standing in the notary's gateway, Schmucke read the document, saw
the imputations made against him, and, all ignorant as he was of the
amenities of the law, the blow was deadly. The little grain of sand
stopped his heart's beating. Topinard caught him in his arms, hailed
a passing cab, and put the poor German into it. He was suffering from
congestion of the brain; his eyes were dim, his head was throbbing, but
he had enough strength left to put the money into Topinard's hands.

Schmucke rallied from the first attack, but he never recovered
consciousness, and refused to eat. Ten days afterwards he died without
a complaint; to the last he had not spoken a word. Mme. Topinard nursed
him, and Topinard laid him by Pons' side. It was an obscure funeral;
Topinard was the only mourner who followed the son of Germany to his
last resting-place.

Fraisier, now a justice of the peace, is very intimate with the
President's family, and much valued by the Presidente. She could not
think of allowing him to marry "that girl of Tabareau's," and promised
infinitely better things for the clever man to whom she considers she
owes not merely the pasture-land and the English cottage at Marville,
but also the President's seat in the Chamber of Deputies, for M. le
President was returned at the general election in 1846.

Every one, no doubt, wishes to know what became of the heroine of a
story only too veracious in its details; a chronicle which, taken with
its twin sister the preceding volume, _La Cousine Bette_, proves that
Character is a great social force. You, O amateurs, connoisseurs, and
dealers, will guess at once that Pons' collection is now in question.
Wherefore it will suffice if we are present during a conversation that
took place only a few days ago in Count Popinot's house. He was showing
his splendid collection to some visitors.

"M. le Comte, you possess treasures indeed," remarked a distinguished
foreigner.

"Oh! as to pictures, nobody can hope to rival an obscure collector, one
Elie Magus, a Jew, an old monomaniac, the prince of picture-lovers," the
Count replied modestly. "And when I say nobody, I do not speak of Paris
only, but of all Europe. When the old Croesus dies, France ought
to spare seven or eight millions of francs to buy the gallery. For
curiosities, my collection is good enough to be talked about--"

"But how, busy as you are, and with a fortu