“Mademoiselle Cormon? why, I thought her rather strange.”
“How that poor abbe fails! Did you notice that he slept? He does not know what cards he holds; he is getting very absent-minded.”
“We shall soon have the grief of losing him.”
“What a fine night! It will be a fine day to-morrow.”
“Good weather for the apple-blossoms.”
“You beat us; but when you play with Monsieur de Valois you never do otherwise.”
“How much did he win?”
“Well, to-night, three or four francs; he never loses.”
“True; and don’t you know there are three hundred and sixty-five days a year? At that price his gains are the value of a farm.”
“Ah! what hands we had to-night!”