Suddenly, before dealing the cards, Aristide asked, “A qui la main?”
“C’est à Monsieur,” said the croupier, indicating Lussigny.
“Il y a une suite,” said Aristide, signifying, as was his right, that he would retire from the bank with his winnings. “The face of that gentleman does not please me.”
There was a hush at the humming table. The Count grew dead white and looked at his fingernails. Aristide superbly gathered up his notes and gold, and tossing a couple of louis to the croupiers, left the table, followed by all eyes. It was one of the thrilling moments of Aristide’s life. He had taken the stage, commanded the situation. He had publicly offered the Comte de Lussigny the most deadly insult and the Comte de Lussigny sat down beneath it like a lamb. He swaggered slowly through the crowded room, twirling his moustache, and went into the cool of the moonlit deserted garden beyond, where he waited gleefully. He had a puckish knowledge of human nature. After a decent interval, and during the absorbing interest of the newly constituted bank, the Comte de Lussigny slipped unnoticed from the table and went in search of Aristide. He found him smoking a large corona and lounging in one wicker chair with his feet on another, beside a very large whisky and soda.
“Ah, it’s you,” said he without moving.
“Yes,” said the Count furiously.
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of kicking your friends over Mont Revard,” said Aristide.
“Look here, mon petit, this has got to finish,” cried the Count.
“Parfaitement. I should like nothing better than to finish. But let us finish like well-bred people,” said Aristide suavely. “We don’t want the whole Casino as witnesses. You’ll find a chair over there. Bring it up.”
He was enjoying himself immensely. The Count glared at him, turned and banged a chair over by the side of the table.