They began to talk of various matters, and Abbé Faujas seemed to throw off his gloomy coldness. He still remained grave, but it was with a pleasant, good-natured gravity. He listened attentively to Mouret, replied to his most insignificant remarks, and seemed to take an interest in his gossip. His landlord explained to him the manner in which the family lived, and finished his account by saying:
'We spend our evenings in the way you see, always as quietly as this. We never invite anyone, as we are always more comfortable by ourselves. Every evening I have a game at piquet with my wife. It is a very old habit of ours, and I could scarcely go to sleep without it.'
'Pray don't let us interfere with it!' cried Abbé Faujas. 'I beg that you won't in any way depart from your usual habits on our account.'
'Oh dear no! I am not a monomaniac about it, and it won't kill me to go without it for once.'
The priest insisted for a time, but, when he saw that Marthe declined to play with even greater determination than her husband, he turned towards his mother, who had been sitting silent with her hands folded in front of her, and said:
'Mother, you have a game with Monsieur Mouret.'
She looked keenly into her son's eyes, while Mouret still continued to refuse, and declared that he did not want to break up the party. However, when the priest told him that his mother was a good player he gave way.
'Is she, indeed?' he said. 'Then, if madame really wishes it, and no one objects——'
'Come along, mother, and have a game!' said Abbé Faujas in a more decided tone.