"It seems to me that there is nothing equivocal about it. The fly is still in my glass."
"But I am anxious to know if it is really a fly. I am not going to lose a crown for a pig in a poke."
Chaudoreille arose and advanced his head, that he might look more closely into the glass which was before Marcel, but no sooner had he by this movement approached his host than he cried, carrying his hand to his nose,--
"The game is off. There is nothing more to be done."
"This is to say," cried Marcel, in his turn rising from the table.
"Why, by jingo, because your breath is strong enough to make flies fall in their flight. After that you see the game is not equal."
"Chaudoreille, I will take the thing as a joke, and I don't care about winning your money, but I flatter myself that I have a breath at least as fresh as yours."
"Take the thing as a joke?" said the chevalier, putting his hand on the handle of his sword. "Do you wish to vex me? By jingo, if I had known."
"Do you think I will suffer such injuries. By Rolande, I don't know how to hold myself."
"By George! If I believed that you wish to molest me, as if I care about a crown; if I had lost a hundred I should have paid you just the same."
The more Marcel tried to calm his comrade, the more he lost his temper and shouted, for he believed that Marcel was afraid of him and he wished to profit by his bullying; he even went so far as to draw his sword and run about the room, rolling his little eyes around him as if he would split everything in two. Marcel grew impatient, and seeing that all of his entreaties were vain decided to take a broom handle from behind the door. Putting himself on the defensive, he waited for his enemy to come and attack him, but this action suddenly calmed Chaudoreille's fury. At sight of Marcel on guard with his broom, he stopped and struck his forehead as one who has suddenly received an enlightening idea.
"Great God!" he cried, "What was I going to do? It was in the house of the noble Marquis de Villebelle that I allowed myself to be carried away by anger? Oh, my courage, how much trouble you give me. All is forgotten, Marcel. Come to my arms. I will forgive you."
Marcel, always a good fellow, threw aside his broom and shook hands with Chaudoreille. They returned to the table, but they played no more, and while in the room on the first floor somebody was sighing and looking at the hand of the clock, in the lower room the two comrades ended by putting themselves to sleep while sampling the fine wines and liqueurs of the marquis.