Conu Costache had one of the pleasantest faces in the town.
Men of the same age as himself said he was nearly seventy years old; but a life free from care, a comfortable fortune, a wife as loving as a sister, two children who were getting on well, and, above all, his own kindly nature, had kept him so healthy, quick of movement and clear of mind, that one would not have given him fifty years.
He told stories with a charm and humour that gathered an audience round him whenever he opened his mouth; and as he had travelled much abroad, and was also a sportsman, he knew every kind of amusing anecdote.
This man, who was as good as new bread, always smiling, whose person seemed to radiate joy, became acrimonious and impatient every time his game of Preference went badly; it was the one and only, but the daily game of cards he played. He did not get angry out of stinginess--he was not a miser; on the contrary, he was open-handed, that was his nature.
If it happened that he "entered" twice in succession, or if he got irritated with his partners, he grew furious. Everything seemed wrong to him; the jam was sour, the coffee too sweet, the water too cold, the lamp too dim, the chalk was not sharp enough; he shouted at the boy who served him; he changed his chair because it squeaked; he hammered upon the table with his fists until the candlesticks jumped; he looked daggers over his spectacles at anyone who made a joke--I assure you, he was in a vile temper, as vile a temper as a man could be in, when he had no other place in which to give vent to it.
His partners knew him, and were aware that five minutes after the game was over he would become once more kind, amiable, and amusing Conu Costache.
If you were sitting near him when he was playing Preference, you should get up the first time he "entered"; shouldn't wait for him to say to you: "Can't you get away, my good fellow; you spoil my luck!" One day, after two "entries," he said to a person with whom he had only just become acquainted and who would not move away from his side:
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe in birds of ill omen. This game is a question of faces. I can scarcely compose my own face; I certainly cannot compose yours. Kindly move a little farther off! Thank you. Don't be offended."