"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 he.
Mme. Cibot was quite touched. "Monsieur is going to dine here every
day!" she cried proudly.
That excellent woman departed downstairs again in ignorance of the
event which had brought about this result, entered her room like
Josepha in _William Tell_, set down the plates and dishes on the table
with a bang, and called aloud to her husband:
"Cibot! run to the _Cafe Turc_ for two small cups of coffee, and tell
the man at the stove that it is for me.
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