quadrille.

"Now let us go and see the sharpers," said Servigny. And they
entered the gambling-room.

Around each table stood a group of men, looking on. There was very
little conversation. At times the clink of gold coins, tossed upon
the green cloth or hastily seized, added its sound to the murmur of
the players, just as if the money was putting in its word among the
human voices.

All the men were decorated with various orders, and odd ribbons, and
they all wore the same severe expression, with different
countenances. The especially distinguishing feature was the beard.

The stiff American with his horseshoe, the haughty Englishman with
his fan-beard open on his breast, the Spaniard with his black fleece
reaching to the eyes, the Roman with that huge mustache which Italy
copied from Victor Emmanuel, the Austrian with his whiskers and
shaved chin, a Russian general whose lip seemed armed with two
twisted lances, and a Frenchman with a dainty mustache, displayed
the fancies of all the barbers in the world.

"You won't join the game?" asked Servigny.

"No, shall you?"

"Not now. If you are ready to go, we will come back some quieter
day. There are too many people here to-day, and we can't do
anything."

"Well, let us go."

And they disappeared behind a door-curtain into the hall. As soon as
they were in the street Servigny asked: "Well, what do you think of
it?"

"It certainly is interesting, but I fancy the women's side of it
more than the men's."

"Indeed! Those women are the best of the tribe for us. Don't you
find that you breathe the odor of love among them, just as you scent
the perfumes at a hairdresser's?"

"Really such houses are the place for one to go. And what experts,
my dear fellow! What artists! Have you ever eaten bakers' cakes?
They look well, but they amount to nothing. The man who bakes them
only knows how to make bread. Well! the love of a woman in ordinary
society always reminds me of these bake-shop trifles, while the love
you find at houses like the Marquise Obardi's, don't you see, is the
real sweetmeat. Oh! they know how to make cakes, these charming
pastry-cooks. Only you pay five sous, at their shops, for what costs
two sous elsewhere."

"Who is the master of the house just now?" asked Saval.

Servigny shrugged his shoulders, signifying his ignorance.

"I don't know, the latest one known was an English peer, but he left
three months ago. At present she must live off the