"Tell me, did you ever see a more blissful lover?" asks the teasing lieutenant, who has just returned from the billiard-room. As the disputants, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, have made up their quarrel, there is nothing more for him to do there. "He seems inspired indeed at the thought of his beloved." And he takes a seat on the table nearest the players.
"Every point in trumps," says Treurenberg, intent upon his game.
"It is my impression that he would like to drink her health in aconite," the lieutenant continues.
"That betrothal seems to me a most mysterious affair," mutters Wodin. "I do not understand Leskjewitsch: he was not even in debt."
The lieutenant bites his lip, makes a private sign to Wodin, and takes pains not to look at Treurenberg.
Lato flushes, and is absorbed in polishing his eyeglass, which has slipped out of his eye.
"I lose three thousand," he says, slowly, consulting his tablets. "Shall we have another game, Wodin?"
[CHAPTER XII.]
A GRAVEYARD IN PARIS.
Paris, in the middle of August.