“Have you got a good road along there now?”
“Y—y—yes, Mrs. Raluca.”
It was a wonder his handkerchief did not rub the skin off his forehead, he mopped it with such vigour. His partners and the onlookers shook with laughter; the attorney did not give way at all, he saw how furious he was; he bid with nothing in his hand, and passed just in time to make him “enter” a second time.
And at this moment Mrs. Raluca’s questions fell one after the other as fast as the beads of a rosary. She did not hear the rustling of the cards nor the choking in Conu Costache’s throat, she did not see his misery nor the amusement of the others.
“But they have cut down the lovely wood on the right, haven’t they, Mr. Costache?”
“Th—th—they have cut it down, Mrs. Raluca,” he answered, gazing at the ceiling and pressing his temples between his hands.
He bid and came in, said “Play”—and found two clubs in the talon which he did not want. Such a collection of cards you have never seen; it might have been done on purpose. If you had tried to arrange them so, you could not have done it. It was a regular “walk-over”: one cut four honours, the other cut the spades, and out of the eight games won five.
All he cut was an ace, and a pair. He put forty-eight in the pool.
“But the little lake still lies on the left, doesn’t it, Mr. Costache?”
“St—st—still, Mrs. Raluca.”