“It won’t be long afore I find out what is the matter with him, poor dear,” said Mme. Cibot to her husband, “for here is M. Schmucke’s dinner all ready for him.”
As she spoke she covered the deep earthenware dish with a plate; and, notwithstanding her age, she climbed the stair and reached the door before Schmucke opened it to Pons.
“Vat is de matter mit you, mein goot friend?” asked the German, scared by the expression of Pons’ face.
“I will tell you all about it; but I have come home to have dinner with you – ”
“Tinner! tinner!” cried Schmucke in ecstasy; “but it is impossible!” the old German added, as he thought of his friend’s gastronomical tastes; and at that very moment he caught sight of Mme. Cibot listening to the conversation, as she had a right to do as his lawful housewife. Struck with one of those happy inspirations which only enlighten a friend’s heart, he marched up to the portress and drew her out to the stairhead.
“Montame Zipod,” he said, “der goot Pons is fond of goot dings; shoost go rount to der Catran Pleu und order a dainty liddle tinner, mit anjovies und maggaroni. Ein tinner for Lugullus, in vact.”
“What is that?” inquired La Cibot.
“Oh! ah!” returned Schmucke, “it is veal a la pourcheoise” (bourgeoise, he meant), “a nice fisch, ein pottle off Porteaux, und nice dings, der fery best dey haf, like groquettes of rice und shmoked pacon! Bay for it, und say nodings; I vill gif you back de monny to-morrow morning.”
Back went Schmucke, radiant and rubbing his hands; but his expression slowly changed to a look of bewildered astonishment as he heard Pons’ story of the troubles that had but just now overwhelmed him in a moment. He tried to comfort Pons by giving him a sketch of the world from his own point of view. Paris, in his opinion, was a perpetual hurly-burly, the men and women in it were whirled away by a tempestuous waltz; it was no use expecting anything of the world, which only looked at the outsides of things, “und not at der inderior.” For the hundredth time he related how that the only three pupils for whom he had really cared, for whom he was ready to die, the three who had been fond of him, and even allowed him a little pension of nine hundred francs, each contributing three hundred to the amount – his favorite pupils had quite forgotten to come to see him; and so swift was the current of Parisian life which swept them away, that if he called at their houses, he had not succeeded in seeing them once in three years – (it is a fact, however, that Schmucke had always thought fit to call on these great ladies at ten o’clock in the morning!) – still, his pension was paid quarterly through the medium of solicitors.
“Und yet, dey are hearts of gold,” he concluded. “Dey are my liddle Saint Cecilias, sharming vimmen, Montame de Bordentuere, Montame de Fantenesse, und Montame du Dilet. Gif I see dem at all, it is at die Jambs Elusees, und dey do not see me… yet dey are ver’ fond of me, und I might go to dine mit dem, und dey vould be ver’ bleased to see me; und I might go to deir country-houses, but I vould much rader be mit mine friend Bons, because I kann see him venefer I like, und efery tay.”
Pons took Schmucke’s hand and grasped it between his own. All that was passing in his inmost soul was communicated in that tight pressure. And so for awhile the friends sat like two lovers, meeting at last after a long absence.
“Tine here, efery tay!” broke out Schmucke, inwardly blessing Mme. de Marville for her hardness of heart. “Look here! Ve shall go a prick-a-pracking togeders, und der teufel shall nefer show his tail here.”
“Ve shall go prick-a-pracking togeders!” for the full comprehension of those truly heroic words, it must be confessed that Schmucke’s ignorance of bric-a-brac was something of the densest. It required all the strength of his friendship to keep him from doing heedless damage in the sitting-room and study which did duty as a museum for Pons. Schmucke, wholly absorbed in music, a composer for love of his art, took about as much interest in his friend’s little trifles as a fish might take in a flower-show at the Luxembourg, supposing that it had received a ticket of admission. A certain awe which he certainly felt for the marvels was simply a reflection of the respect which Pons showed his treasures when he dusted them. To Pons’ exclamations of admiration, he was wont to reply with a “Yes, it is ver’ bretty,” as a mother answers baby-gestures with meaningless baby-talk. Seven times since the friends had lived together, Pons had exchanged a good clock for a better one, till at last he possessed a timepiece in Boule’s first and best manner, for Boule had two manners, as Raphael had three. In the first he combined ebony and copper; in the second – contrary to his convictions – he sacrificed to tortoise-shell inlaid work. In spite of Pons’ learned dissertations, Schmucke never could see the slightest difference between the magnificent clock in Boule’s first manner and its six predecessors; but, for Pons’ sake, Schmucke was even more careful among the “chimcracks” than Pons himself. So it should not be surprising that Schmucke’s sublime words comforted Pons in his despair; for “Ve shall go prick-a-pracking togeders,” meant, being interpreted, “I will put money into bric-a-brac, if you will only dine here.”
“Dinner is ready,” Mme. Cibot announced, with astonishing self-possession.
It is not difficult to imagine Pons’ surprise when he saw and relished the dinner due to Schmucke’s friendship. Sensations of this kind, that came so rarely in a lifetime, are never the outcome of the constant, close relationship by which friend daily says to friend, “You are a second self to me”; for this, too, becomes a matter of use and wont. It is only by contact with the barbarism of the world without that the happiness of that intimate life is revealed to us as a sudden glad surprise. It is the outer world which renews the bond between friend and friend, lover and lover, all their lives long, wherever two great souls are knit together by friendship or by love.
Pons brushed away two big tears, Schmucke himself wiped his eyes; and though nothing was said, the two were closer friends than before. Little friendly nods and glances exchanged across the table were like balm to Pons, soothing the pain caused by the sand dropped in his heart by the President’s wife. As for Schmucke, he rubbed his hands till they were sore; for a new idea had occurred to him, one of those great discoveries which cause a German no surprise, unless they sprout up suddenly in a Teuton brain frost-bound by the awe and reverence due to sovereign princes.
“Mine goot Bons?” began Schmucke.
“I can guess what you mean; you would like us both to dine together here, every day – ”
“Gif only I vas rich enof to lif like dis efery tay – ” began the good German in a melancholy voice. But here Mme. Cibot appeared upon the scene. Pons had given her an order for the theatre from time to time, and stood in consequence almost as high in her esteem and affection as her boarder Schmucke.
“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!” In his eagerness, Schmucke, usually so full of respect for the powers that be, so far forgot himself as to imitate the irreverent newspapers which scoffed at the “fixed-price” dinners of Royalty.
“Really?” said Pons. “Very well, I will try to-morrow.”
And at that promise Schmucke sprang from one end of the table to the other, sweeping off tablecloth, bottles, and dishes as he went, and hugged Pons to his heart. So might gas rush to combine with gas.
“Vat happiness!” cried