They mounted the steps, she
leaning on his arm, and entered the rose-coloured boudoir where the
marchioness was seated, impatiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting
her victim.
"Now, then, incorruptible magistrate," cried she.
But M. Daburon felt sick at heart. He could not have held the cards. He
stammered some absurd excuses, spoke of pressing affairs, of duties to
be attended to, of feeling suddenly unwell, and went out, clinging to
the walls.
His departure made the old card-player highly indignant. She turned to
her grand-daughter, who had gone to hide her confusion away from the
candles of the card table, and asked, "What is the matter with Daburon
this evening?"
"I do not know, madame," stammered Claire.
"It appears to me," continued the marchioness, "that the little
magistrate permits himself to take singular liberties. He must be
reminded of his proper place, or he will end by believing himself our
equal."
Claire tried to explain the magistrate's conduct: "He has been
complaining all the evening, grandmamma; perhaps he is unwell."
"And what if he is?" exclaimed the old lady. "Is it not his duty to
exercise some self-denial, in return for the honour of our company? I
think I have already related to you the story of your granduncle, the
Duke de St Hurluge, who, having been chosen to join the king's card
party on their return from the chase, played all through the evening and
lost with the best grace in the world two hundred and twenty pistoles.
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