"What does _passe carreau_ mean?" Monin asked Destival in a whisper. "It means that we have lost, as you see." "I don't know the terms of the game. That makes four sous that I've lost already." "Make your bet." "Allow me to see what the weather is, first. Oh! it's still raining very hard. I am in the game." "Monsieur is lucky!" "And then, too, I am pretty good at this game!" said La Thomassinière, leaning back in his chair. "I believe that I play it rather well too," rejoined Destival, biting his lips angrily. "Be quiet, messieurs! we can't hear each other sing!" said the sprightly Athalie, while Auguste sang: "_Il certo il mio periglio_." La Thomassinière beat time falsely with his foot, murmuring, to make believe that he understood Italian: "Very pretty! exceedingly pretty! bravo! bravo! bravissimo!" Whereupon Monin stooped and whispered to Destival: "Does that mean that we have lost, too?" "No, no! don't you hear them singing Italian? It's a duet by La Pie."[B] [B] _Pie_ in French means magpie. "Oho! it's by La Pie!" Monin repeated, rolling his eyes about and taking out his snuff-box. "How does it happen, neighbor, that a _pie_ writes a duet?" "My dear Monin," said Destival testily, "please don't talk to me all the time; you see, you make me lose." "What! I make you lose, although I am not playing?" "Yes, yes, it confuses me. Bet again. I certainly am not a poor player, but when a person talks like that----" "You see we've got a _pie_ at home that talks finely, and I wanted to know--That makes eight sous I've lost." "And I sixteen francs!" "Bah! what does that amount to, messieurs?" said La Thomassinière; "if you played for handfuls of gold as I do, it would be all very well; that's what you can call gambling! I am very sorry to waste my luck for such small stakes.--Bravo! bravissimo! _Certo pio pio piu! Atoussimo!_" La Thomassinière insisted on mixing Italian into everything that he said, and Destival forced himself to smile, as he felt in his pockets; but his gayety was forced, and his smiles were grimaces. The two singers exchanged melting glances as they executed together roulades and flourishes, which they prolonged inordinately, and during which Madame Destival coughed impatiently in the hope of disturbing the harmony that was rapidly becoming established between them. Suddenly the door of the salon was thrown open; a stout woman of fifty or thereabouts, wearing a straw hat whose brim barely overpassed her forehead and upon which nodded a wreath of faded roses, entered the room with the air of a person in a towering rage, holding an umbrella in one hand, and in the other a reticule large enough to hold a ten pound loaf of sugar. At sight of her Monin started back, lost his wits, upset his snuff-box, and acted as if he proposed to hide himself under the table.