“You sing very nicely too that song about sheep: ‘Margot filait tranquillement, ne pensant, ne rêvant qu’à son p’tit, p’tit, p’tit.’”
“Hush, monsieur, and attend to your game, as you’re so fond of gambling. Is it piquet they’re playing there?”
“No, Bichette, écarté.”
“What? écarté? And how long have you known écarté, monsieur?”
“I don’t know it, but I was just going to tell you, I’m betting on it.”
“Ah! you’re betting, are you? Well, I trust that you are modest at least, and don’t play for big stakes?”
“Oh, no! never fear, Bichette!”
“You have lost your forty sous, Monsieur Monin!” exclaimed Destival at that moment, heaving a deep sigh.
“Forty sous!” shouted Madame Monin, jumping from her chair with a violence that made all the furniture in the room tremble; “what’s that? Monsieur Monin betting forty sous! Why, that is horrible! For heaven’s sake, neighbor, what did you give him to drink at dinner?—What is the meaning of such extravagance, Monsieur Monin? Have you gone crazy?”
“No, Bichette, it’s a mistake; I assure you that I didn’t bet but two sous.”