I will just let him say anything that comes into his
head. I will bear it all for love of you, an angel as you are."
"No, I am ein boor man, dot lof his friend and vould gif his life to
save him--"
"But the money?" broke in La Cibot. "My good M. Schmucke, let us
suppose that you pay me nothing; you will want three thousand francs,
and where are they to come from? Upon my word, do you know what I
should do in your place? I should not think twice, I should just sell
seven or eight good-for-nothing pictures and put up some of those
instead that are standing in your closet with their faces to the wall
for want of room. One picture or another, what difference does it
make?"
"Und vy?"
"He is so cunning. It is his illness, for he is a lamb when he is
well. He is capable of getting up and prying about; and if by any
chance he went into the salon, he is so weak that he could not go
beyond the door; he would see that they are all still there."
"Drue!"
"And when he is quite well, we will tell him about the sale. And if
you wish to confess, throw it all upon me, say that you were obliged
to pay me. Come! I have a broad back--"
"I cannot tispose of dings dot are not mine," the good German answered
simply.
"Very well. I will summons you, you and M. Pons."
"It vould kill him--"
"Take your choice! Dear me, sell the pictures and tell him about it
afterwards . . . you can show him the summons--"
"Ver' goot. Summons us.
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