Cards is the diversion: cards and dominoes. The habitual inner circle there is made up by the proprietor, the ex-Mayor of the town, le directeur de la Banque de ——, and the manager of the Usine de ——. The last named used to have inscrutable spells of absence—inscrutable until it was explained that the occasion was the visit of M. —— the elder, himself, from Paris—a man of iron and the proprietor of the Usine. He it was who quelled with his own hand and voice an ugly strike of his ouvriers who dared ask for more money.
The ex-Mayor was never absent. He was a well preserved old dog whom no severity of weather was allowed to keep from the post of duty by the stove. The whole room was obsequious to him by force of habit. He was the presiding genius over the café: he, rather than the proprietor himself. He would come rolling in, and fairly rattle the glasses with his "Bonjour, messieurs!" He usually walked over to the buffet before seating himself, and, if so minded, greeted Thérèse with a fatherly kiss, which she—poor girl!—thought dignified her; whereas Thérèse, to be accurate, was worth far more than the embraces of this pompous old aristocrat. With his intimates he shook hands noisily, and slapped them on the back. The herd half-rose in its seat throughout the room in traditional deference. I suspect it was the general obsequiousness, rather than the interest of the game, or of the company, which brought the old egoist here daily.
The directeur of the bank is not worth considering. He was the incarnation of obsequiousness. It was plain that he had habitually sold his soul to patrons. And since it is likely that at one time the ex-Mayor was his chief patron (and perhaps was so still), you will believe that he was more slavish toward him than the humblest townsman sipping his cognac. You almost looked for him to lick his master's mighty hand.
The proprietor was a sinewy fellow who had been a soldier. It was wounds he had had; which had not, however, incapacitated him for vigorous action. Also, he had been a prisoner of war in Germany. These German experiences he would recount to you with much wealth of gesture, and a wealth of exaggeration too, if by chance—or by design—he were drunk enough. He was in a state of perennial intoxication; at any hour of any day or night it was only a question of degree.
In the game of cards in a French café the stake is superfluous. Englishmen profess they require the stake to hold their interest. Usually the French play with counters only. The interest of the game is enough. It is a very voluble game with them. They excite themselves seemingly beyond all reason. You might imagine them a nest of pirates, inflamed with liquor, playing in some den of the sea with fair captives for stakes. These French enthusiasts upset the drink by thumping down their cards. They have rare disputes; but they are not quarrels.
Thérèse is the girl who carries drinks. She has dimples and a happy smile. French girls are either very free or super-continent; there is no middle course. Thérèse is of the latter class, but not puritanical. Subalterns have been seen attempting to kiss her in the seclusion of a recess. They have been routed. The only occasion on which Thérèse allowed herself to be kissed was New Year's Day. Then it was general. Everyone was doing it—in the street—the merest acquaintances. That day Thérèse submits as a matter of course. That day, too, the ex-Mayor gallantly embraced that old hag, her aunt, to the diversion of the populace.
The aunt brews and dispenses behind the buffet. She objects to Thérèse's loitering when she serves, even though loitering may be good for trade. Thérèse describes her as a very sober-minded woman.
The billiard-table attracts a lot of attention—from onlookers as well as from players. There the directeur of the banque plays his chief accountant and drinks champagne and grenadine between the shots—a poisonous combination, that, but a popular. The French like things sweet, and they like them definitely coloured. The directeur is a handsome fellow, with a perfectly balanced head and a curiously pleasing harmony of nose and chin in profile. His accountant is a loose-looking youth.
The billiard-table is a favourite resort of officers' batmen. They have nothing else to do, and they can play half a day for almost nothing at all. I always remember an acute-looking Scotch batman in kilts (servant to the Rents-Officer). He was proud of his calves and of his French—and (justly) of his billiards. He could bring discomfiture upon any Frenchman who would play with him. He is the sort of officer's servant (and there are many of them, the voluptuous dogs!) who could carry a commission with ease and credit. But they prefer the whole days of idleness on which they are free to follow their own devices.