Jean Ficelle turned the card and showed his wondering comrade that it was not biribi.
Sans-Cravate was stupefied. Jean Ficelle repeated the trick twice, and won two more glasses of beer.
"Are you a sorcerer?" cried the other.
"Oh, no! But you don't see that, when I move the cards about, I always throw the one that's on top, although I make believe to throw the one on the bottom. That's how they gull the peasant, who thinks he hasn't taken his eyes off biribi. But if by any chance the pigeon guesses right, just when he's going to put his hand on the card which is really biribi, a confederate, who is always on hand, says to him: 'Not that one, my man; the other one, to the left. I am sure of it, and, to prove it, I'll bet a hundred sous.' The peasant is persuaded by the confederate's confidence, he takes up the card on which the other has bet five francs, and he is smoked.—I say there, you man of sighs, come and play biribi with us a while."
Paul glanced at the cards and shook his head.
"I don't care for card playing," he said.
"We must kill time, especially when we've nothing to do. Come and play for a glass of beer—that won't ruin you."
"I don't want to play."
"Humph! what a poor cuss that fellow is!" said Jean Ficelle, turning back to Sans-Cravate. "He'll never spend a sou with his friends. I don't call that being a man, myself."
"Paul is more sensible, wiser, than we are; he saves his money and he does well."