dinner, which consisted of scraps of boiled beef from a little
cook-shop not above doing a little trade of this kind. These morsels
were fricasseed in brown butter, with thin slices of onion, until the
meat and vegetables had absorbed the gravy and this true porter's dish
was browned to the right degree. With that fricassee, prepared with
loving care for Cibot and Schmucke, and accompanied by a bottle of beer
and a piece of cheese, the old German music-master was quite content.
Not King Solomon in all his glory, be sure, could dine better than
Schmucke. A dish of boiled beef fricasseed with onions, scraps of
_saute_ chicken, or beef and parsley, or venison, or fish served with
a sauce of La Cibot's own invention (a sauce with which a mother might
unsuspectingly eat her child),--such was Schmucke's ordinary, varying
with the quantity and quality of the remnants of food supplied by
boulevard restaurants to the cook-shop in the Rue Boucherat. Schmucke
took everything that "goot Montame Zipod" gave him, and was content,
and so from day to day "goot Montame Zipod" cut down the cost of his
dinner, until it could be served for twenty sous.

"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