The marquis glanced at Auguste with a smile, and they left the grotto for the billiard-room, where Monsieur de la Thomassinière missed every shot, and exclaimed after every stroke that he misplayed:
“The trouble is that I’ve got a crooked cue; I can’t see straight to-day; it’s the fault of the table; my head aches; something’s the matter with me; I’m not in the mood for playing; but if I were, you would be nowhere.”
Little Tony had arrived long before and had handed his master the fresh supply of funds. When the marquis saw that Dalville had a cabriolet, he manifested great friendliness for him, and declared that there was sympathy between Auguste’s tastes and his—a sympathy which Auguste had not observed, although that fact did not prevent his responding to Monsieur de Cligneval’s advances.
The dinner-hour arrived, and they went to the table, where Athalie did the honors with much grace. Not to depart from his custom, La Thomassinière did not appear in the dining-room until the soup had been removed; but he was delighted to say before the marquis that he had ten important letters to write.
The dinner was even more agreeable than the morning repast, because they knew one another better, and delicious wines heated their brains and urged them on to folly. Athalie had the knack of keeping the party in good humor by her sallies. The marquis thought her divine, entrancing, and confounded himself in compliments. The petite-maîtresse was not ambitious to fascinate a man of fifty, but she was very glad to earn the praise of a marquis; and the young men were not jealous of the marquis; so that there was nothing to mar the general jollity. They allowed La Thomassinière to talk endlessly of his farms, his wealth, his speculations; but they applauded him when he extolled his wines and his cook.
They left the table as merry as well-bred people can be. Athalie went to see if her harp was in tune. The men went into the garden for a breath of fresh air. It was not dark as yet, but the light was fading.
The marquis had sauntered away, and Auguste was left alone with La Thomassinière, who also claimed to be congenial to him, when, as they strolled along a shaded path which was quite dark, and which skirted the orchard, they heard the report of a hearty kiss. Auguste halted, curious to know what was going on. La Thomassinière followed suit, with an air of amazement.
“Did you hear?” he asked Auguste.
“Yes,” was the reply, “I heard very distinctly.”
“What was it?”