“No, no! don’t you hear them singing Italian? It’s a duet by La Pie.”[B]
[B] Pie in French means magpie.
“Oho! it’s by La Pie!” Monin repeated, rolling his eyes about and taking out his snuff-box. “How does it happen, neighbor, that a pie writes a duet?”
“My dear Monin,” said Destival testily, “please don’t talk to me all the time; you see, you make me lose.”
“What! I make you lose, although I am not playing?”
“Yes, yes, it confuses me. Bet again. I certainly am not a poor player, but when a person talks like that——”
“You see we’ve got a pie at home that talks finely, and I wanted to know—That makes eight sous I’ve lost.”
“And I sixteen francs!”
“Bah! what does that amount to, messieurs?” said La Thomassinière; “if you played for handfuls of gold as I do, it would be all very well; that’s what you can call gambling! I am very sorry to waste my luck for such small stakes.—Bravo! bravissimo! Certo pio pio piu! Atoussimo!”
La Thomassinière insisted on mixing Italian into everything that he said, and Destival forced himself to smile, as he felt in his pockets; but his gayety was forced, and his smiles were grimaces. The two singers exchanged melting glances as they executed together roulades and flourishes, which they prolonged inordinately, and during which Madame Destival coughed impatiently in the hope of disturbing the harmony that was rapidly becoming established between them.