"Oh! whist players care but little for singing."
"You are more or less right; that game makes savages of people—ferocious savages, I may say. Whist enthusiasts close the door when there is singing in the next room. I verily believe, that, if you told them the house was burning down, they'd insist on finishing their rub before making their escape."
"You see that it would be very unkind of me to sing."
"Pardon me, I am not playing; and what do you care if——"
"Monsieur de la Bérinière, in the name of your ancestors, come and show Monsieur Batonnin how to play; it's very important! We are playing the rub, and I don't want to lose it through my partner's misplay."
"That Madame de Mirallon is a terrible creature, really! Ah! when women grow old, they gain in exactingness what they lose in attractions; and the compensation isn't sufficient."
Having indulged in this muttered reflection, the count returned to his station behind Monsieur Batonnin; and Madame de Mirallon bestowed a long and searching glance upon him as she said:
"It's very hard to keep you, now!"
And the word now brought a smile to the lips of Monsieur Clairval, who said to his partner:
"Come, Monsieur de Raincy, we must stand to our guns; we are playing against three."