M. de Tregars understood very well that something extraordinary had happened; but, unable to guess what, he leaned over towards his companion.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“We must hear what these two men are saying; and we’ll play a game of piquet for a subterfuge.”
The waiter returned, bringing two glasses of a muddy liquid, a piece of cloth, the color of which was concealed under a layer of dirt, and a pack of cards horribly soft and greasy.
“My deal,” said Maxence.
And he began shuffling, and giving the cards, whilst M. de Tregars was examining the punch-drinkers at the next table.
In one of the two, a man still young, wearing a striped vest with alpaca sleeves, he thought he recognized one of the rascally-looking fellows he had caught a glimpse of in Mme. Zelie Cadelle’s carriage-house.
The other, an old man, whose inflamed complexion and blossoming nose betrayed old habits of drunkenness, looked very much like a coachman out of place. Baseness and duplicity bloomed upon his countenance; and the brightness of his small eyes rendered still more alarming the slyly obsequious smile that was stereotyped upon his thin and pale lips.
They were so completely absorbed in their conversation, that they paid no attention whatever to what was going on around them.
“Then,” the old one was saying, “it’s all over.”