“But what is so odd,” the Curé would say, “is that I never cheat when I am fined.”
No one laid down a card without profound meditation, without keen scrutiny, and more or less astute hints, ingenious and searching remarks. The deals were interrupted, you may be sure, by gossip as to what was going on in the town, or discussions on politics. Frequently the players would pause for a quarter of an hour, their cards held in a fan against their chest, absorbed in talk. Then, if after such an interruption a counter was short in the pool, everybody was certain that his or her counter was not missing; and generally it was the Chevalier who made up the loss, under general accusations of thinking of nothing but the singing in his ears, his headache, or his fads, and of forgetting to put in. As soon as he had paid up a counter, old Zéphirine or the cunning hunchback was seized with remorse; they then fancied that perhaps the fault was theirs; they thought, they doubted; but, after all, the Chevalier could afford the little loss! The Baron often quite forgot what he was about when the misfortunes of the Royal family came under discussion.
Sometimes the game resulted in a way that was invariably a surprise to the players, who each counted on being the winner. After a certain number of rounds each had won back his counters, and went away, the hour being late, without loss or profit, but not without excitement. On these depressing evenings the mouche was abused; it had not been interesting; the players accused the game, as Negroes beat the reflection of the moon in water when the weather is bad. The evening had been dull; they had toiled so hard for so little.
When, on their first visit, the Vicomte de Kergarouët and his wife spoke of whist and boston as games more interesting than mouche, and were encouraged to teach them by the Baroness, who was bored to death by mouche, the company bent themselves to the innovation, not without strong protest; but it was impossible to make these games understood; and as soon as the Kergarouëts had left, they were spoken of as overwhelmingly abstruse, as algebraical puzzles, and incredibly difficult. They all preferred their beloved mouche, their unpretentious little mouche. And mouche triumphed over the modern games, as old things constantly triumph over new in Brittany.
While the Curé dealt the cards, the Baroness was asking the Chevalier du Halga the same question as she had asked the day before as to his health. The Chevalier made it a point of honor to have some new complaint. Though the questions were always the same, the Captain had a great advantage in his replies. Today his false ribs had been troubling him. The remarkable thing was that the worthy man never complained of his wounds. Everything serious he was prepared for, he understood it; but fantastic ailments—pains in his head, dogs devouring his inside, bells ringing in his ears, and a thousand other crotchets worried him greatly; he set up as an incurable, with all the more reason that physicians know no remedy for maladies that are nonexistent.
“Yesterday, I fancy you had pains in your legs?” said the Curé very seriously.
“They move about,” replied du Halga.
“Legs in your false ribs?” asked Mademoiselle Zéphirine.
“And made no halt on the way?” said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël with a smile.
The Chevalier bowed gravely, with a negative shake of the head, not without fun in it, which would have proved to an observer that in his youth the seaman must have been witty, loved, and loving. His fossilized life at Guérande covered perhaps many memories. As he stood planted on his heron legs in the sun, stupidly watching the sea, or his dog sporting on the Mall, perhaps he was alive again in the Earthly Paradise of a past rich in remembrance.
“So the old Duc de Lenoncourt is dead!” said the Baron, recalling the passage in the Quotidienne at which his wife had stopped. “Well, well, the first gentleman-in-waiting had not long to wait before following his master. I shall soon go too.”
“My dear! my dear!” said his wife, gently patting his lean and bony hand.
“Let him talk, sister,” said Zéphirine. “So long as I am above ground, he will not go under ground. He is younger than I am.”
A cheerful smile brightened the old woman’s face when the Baron dropped a reflection of this kind, the players and callers would look at each other anxiously, grieved to find the King of Guérande out of spirits. Those who had come to see him would say as they went away, “Monsieur du Guénic is much depressed; have you noticed how much he sleeps?” And next day all Guérande would be talking of it: “The Baron du Guénic is failing.” The words began the conversation in every house in the place.
“And is Thisbe well?” asked Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël as soon as the deal was over.
“The poor little beast is like me,” said the Chevalier. “Her nerves are out of order; she is always holding up one of her legs as she runs.—Like this.”
And in showing how Thisbe ran, by bending his arm as he raised
