"You are joking, no doubt."
"Well I will pass over the sneeze, but if you begin again that will count. Wait! The flies are coming."
They observed silence anew. From time to time Chaudoreille looked into the air and seemed to implore the flies to come and taste his liqueur. At last, after some minutes of waiting, a fly sipped from Marcel's glass.
"I have won," cried the latter.
"One moment," said Chaudoreille, spitefully stamping his foot. "Leave me to judge of this affair."
"It seems to me that there is nothing equivocal about it. The fly is still in my glass."
"But I am anxious to know if it is really a fly. I am not going to lose a crown for a pig in a poke."
Chaudoreille arose and advanced his head, that he might look more closely into the glass which was before Marcel, but no sooner had he by this movement approached his host than he cried, carrying his hand to his nose,—
"The game is off. There is nothing more to be done."
"This is to say," cried Marcel, in his turn rising from the table.