The ex-Mayor was never absent. He was a well preserved old dog whom no severity of weather was allowed to keep from the post of duty by the stove. The whole room was obsequious to him by force of habit. He was the presiding genius over the café: he, rather than the proprietor himself. He would come rolling in, and fairly rattle the glasses with his "_Bonjour, messieurs!_" He usually walked over to the buffet before seating himself, and, if so minded, greeted Thérèse with a fatherly kiss, which she--poor girl!--thought dignified her; whereas Thérèse, to be accurate, was worth far more than the embraces of this pompous old aristocrat. With his intimates he shook hands noisily, and slapped them on the back. The herd half-rose in its seat throughout the room in traditional deference. I suspect it was the general obsequiousness, rather than the interest of the game, or of the company, which brought the old egoist here daily. The _directeur_ of the bank is not worth considering. He was the incarnation of obsequiousness. It was plain that he had habitually sold his soul to patrons. And since it is likely that at one time the ex-Mayor was his chief patron (and perhaps was so still), you will believe that he was more slavish toward him than the humblest townsman sipping his cognac. You almost looked for him to lick his master's mighty hand. The proprietor was a sinewy fellow who had been a soldier. It was wounds he had had; which had not, however, incapacitated him for vigorous action. Also, he had been a prisoner of war in Germany. These German experiences he would recount to you with much wealth of gesture, and a wealth of exaggeration too, if by chance--or by design--he were drunk enough. He was in a state of perennial intoxication; at any hour of any day or night it was only a question of degree. In the game of cards in a French café the stake is superfluous. Englishmen profess they require the stake to hold their interest. Usually the French play with counters only. The interest of the game is enough. It is a very voluble game with them. They excite themselves seemingly beyond all reason. You might imagine them a nest of pirates, inflamed with liquor, playing in some den of the sea with fair captives for stakes. These French enthusiasts upset the drink by thumping down their cards. They have rare disputes; but they are not quarrels.