Maître Tabourin's four clerks, knowing that their chief was lunching in town with a wealthy client, began their afternoon by playing cards. That contempt for the public, which characterizes the small official in France, whether in the service of the state or of a private individual, prevented their stopping or hiding their game when someone knocked at the door.
"Come in," said Vitrolle indistinctly, unhappy in having no trumps.
But to the amazement of his colleagues, the junior clerk, Malaunay, left the card table to meet the intruder, to whom he bowed respectfully. They understood, however, when they caught sight of Mme. Derize, whose soft, blonde hair, lit up by the rays of the winter's sun, contrasted with the reddish fur she was wearing. In spite of the weight of her cloak, she seemed very tall. The cold air out of doors had reddened her cheeks. A black hat, turned up at the side, trimmed with a single feather, gave her the appearance of an English portrait. Hearing of Maître Tabourin's absence, she seemed confused.
"He asked me to come to-day," she said.
"But he will be back, Madame."
"Then I will wait."
They showed her into the little room adjoining his office. And the game continued. When it was over, Lestaque and Dauras, who had won, suggested another. The senior clerk prudently refused, and each one took up a document without enthusiasm. For want of something better to do they talked, paying no attention to the person who was waiting indefinitely. What is more natural than for a client, however charming, to remain in the waiting-room.
"How about our bet?" asked Malaunay.
"What bet?"
"The Derize case. I was the only one who bet on the husband."