“Ah, you young people ... you young people. What do you know of war and politics? I have been through wars, through revolutions, you understand. I know about these things. I am as old as time.”
The old woman was talking in her most fantastic vein. It was her habit to talk thus as if she were wise beyond all people. She was, as Madame Gigon said, a little cracked on this side of her.
“I know ... I know,” she continued to mutter in the most sinister fashion until an unusually large madeleine put an end to her talk.
“How much did you say ... eight francs?” It was the peevish voice of Madame de Cyon settling her bridge debts.
“Eight francs,” came the gruff reply of Captain Marchand. “Eight francs, I tell you.” And then the tinkling of the Russian’s woman’s innumerable gold bangles as she thrust her fat bejeweled hand into a small purse to wrench loose from it the precious eight francs. “I had no luck to-day ... no luck at all,” she observed in the same irritable voice. “No cards at all. What can one do without cards? Now last week I won ...” And she fell to recounting past victories while Captain Marchand’s chair scraped the floor savagely.
And then the voice of Madame Blaise quite close at hand, bidding Madame Gigon good-by.
“On Tuesday, then, Louise. I shall expect you.”
“On Tuesday,” repeated Madame Gigon.
“And bring Madame Shane if she wishes to come. But not ‘Mees Tolliver.’ I can’t bear her and her American ways.” The old harridan bent lower, her reticule shaking with the aged trembling of her thin body. “That Schneidermann!” she observed scornfully. “He is a fool! The men I knew when I was young were interested in revolutions and politics ... not music. Music! Bah!” And to show her disgust she spat on the bare floor.... Then she made a hissing noise and swept up the long dim stairway, her boots squeaking as she walked.
Then the confusion of farewells as the last guests departed, Madame de Cyon passing by, still in bad humor over her losses.