“Enough! let’s say no more about it. I am going to dance a polka.”
The ball-room and card-rooms were soon full of animation. The servants went constantly to and fro with salvers laden with punch, hot or cold. They also passed madeira, champagne and claret; it seemed that the master, or rather the mistress of the house had no other object than to make the guests tipsy.
Thanks to this species of refreshment, the hilarity soon became uproarious, the dances assumed a decidedly Spanish character, and the ladies plunged into them with an abandon that was at times decidedly eccentric.
Monsieur Droguet, who insisted on taking part in all the dances, even those that he did not know, had already been thrown to the floor three times; which did not deter him from beginning again as soon as he was on his feet.
Madame Droguet waltzed with the aplomb of a tower; she did not fall, but woe to those who collided with her! She and Monsieur Luminot, her partner, bumped into and overthrew everyone who came in their path. The ex-dealer in wines had not allowed a salver of punch or champagne to pass him by without saying a word to it. The result was that he was purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and he seemed inclined to defy the whole world.
Edmond, after playing a few rubbers of whist, had taken his place at a lansquenet table, where he was not lucky. Croque did not lose sight of him, and when he left the lansquenet table, he accosted him, saying:
“I don’t care for that game; you lose your money at it without a chance to defend yourself, without having even the pleasure of playing. I prefer écarté, that’s a game full of fine points. Does monsieur play it?”
“Would you like to play a few games? here’s an unoccupied table.”
“I should be glad to; let us see if I shall be more fortunate at this game than the others.”