Also we had our eccentricities, that grew dignified by custom. If, in the game, “Roi rendu” was called, we paid, not with a fish, but with a hair plucked from the head. It made Clélie cry; but not all from loyalty. So, if the King of Hearts triumphed, its owner drank “rubis sur l’ongle,” emptying his glass and tapping the edge of it three times on his left thumb-nail.
Now, I am to tell you of the black evening that at the last broke up our coterie—of the frantic abandon of the scene, and the tragedy of farce with which it closed.
On that afternoon Gardel sparkled beyond his wont. He made the air electric with animation. The company was vociferous for a romp, but at present we four sat idly talkative over the disused cards.
“M. Gardel, you remind me of a gnat-maggot.”
“How, sir?” says Gardel.
“It is without offence. Once, as a boy, I kept a tub of gold-fish. In this the eggs of the little insect would be found to germinate. I used to watch the tiny water-dragons come to the surface to take the air through their tails—my faith! but that was comically like the France of to-day. Now touch the water with a finger, and pouf! there they were all scurried to the bottom in a panic, not to rise again till assured of safety.”
“That is not my way,” says Gardel.
“Wait, my friend. By-and-by, nearing their transformation, these mites plump out and lose their gravity. Then, if one frights them, they try to wriggle down; their buoyancy resists. They may sink five—six inches. It is no good. Up they come again, like bubbles in champagne, to burst on the surface presently and fly away.”
“And shall I fly, monsieur?”
“To the stars, my brave Gardel. But is it not so? One cannot drive you down for long.”