“You put forty sous on the table, monsieur,” said La Thomassinière, “and they’re lost.”
“I had won a lot, you see,” whispered Monin to his wife; “that was just my winnings.”
“You must admit that I am playing in hard luck,” said Destival; “that makes seven times that I have been responsible for Monin’s losing.”
“Seven times, monsieur! have you bet seven times in succession?” cried Madame Monin, glaring at her husband with the expression of a cat about to pounce upon a mouse.
“Why, no, Bichette; you know perfectly well that I am incapable of such a thing!”
“Here’s the duet from Armide,” said Madame Destival; “come, Monsieur Dalville, sing it with madame.”
“I don’t know it,” said Auguste.
“Nonsense! you are enough of a musician to sing it at sight.”
“I’ll prompt you in your passages, monsieur,” said Madame Monin, removing her hat lest it should interfere with her voice.
Madame Monin began. Her voice was almost enough to set one’s teeth on edge. Monin applauded every measure. Suddenly a chord broke. The vivacious Athalie ran her fingers over the keys and seemed excited by the fire with which she was playing. Soon a second chord broke, then a third, and it was impossible to go on. Athalie left her seat, saying: