“What a pity! it was going so well!”
“That’s the disadvantage of your pianos,” said Madame Monin testily, as she put on her shepherdess’s hat; “Monsieur Monin’s little flute’s the thing; there’s no danger of that ever breaking, at all events.”
“Do you want me to go and get it, Bichette?”
“Upon my word, this is a pretty time of night to make such a suggestion! We must go home to bed, monsieur; that will be much better than your little flute.”
Destival left the card-table, red as a turkey-cock.
“I can’t stand it any longer!” he cried. “That makes twelve times that he has passed! I’ve lost at least forty francs!”
“Oh! how can anyone risk so much money?” said Madame Monin. “If you should ever lose forty francs, Monsieur Monin, I’d have a separation at once.”
“Here’s a fine to-do over a trifle!” said La Thomassinière, rising from his chair; “I’ll stake it on a single hand to-morrow, at a notary’s, who’s a friend of mine. That’s where they play écarté! The table is covered with gold and bank-notes! Ah! there’s some fun in that! But otherwise écarté’s a very stupid game.—Well! are we going to bed?”
“Go to bed, monsieur, who’s preventing you?” said Athalie; “we don’t need you.”
“Faith, I am terribly sleepy.”