"I shall not play this evening," the Marchesa answered, and although the tone was mild, the refusal was decisive.
The worthy Paolon, who was always silent and could not play tarocchi, believed he had at last discovered a word which was both wise and obsequious, and which he might safely utter:
"Exactly!" said he.
Pasotti gave him a surly glance, thinking: "What business is it of his?" but he did not venture to speak. The Marchesa appeared not to have noticed Paolon's utterance, and added:
"The others can play if they like."
"Never!" exclaimed the prefect. "We should not think of such a thing!"
Pasotti drew his snuff-box from his pocket. "The Signor Prefetto," said he, speaking very distinctly, and slightly raising his open hand, a pinch of snuff between the thumb and forefinger, "The Signor Prefetto must speak for himself. For my part, as the Signora Marchesa wishes us to play, I am quite willing to oblige her."
The Marchesa was silent, and the fiery prefect, encouraged by her silence, grumbled in an undertone:
"After all, we are in a house of mourning."
Never since Franco had left the house had his name been mentioned at these evening assemblies in the red drawing-room, nor had the Marchesa even alluded either to him or to his wife. She now broke the silence that had lasted four years.