It can easily be imagined that these games, carried on nightly for twenty years, were interrupted now and then by narratives of events in the town, or by discussions on public events.  Sometimes the players would sit for half an hour, their cards held fan-shape on their stomachs, engaged in talking.  If, as a result of these inattentions, a counter was missing from the basket, every one eagerly declared that he or she had put in their proper number.  Usually the chevalier made up the deficiency, being accused by the rest of thinking so much of his buzzing ears, his chilly chest, and other symptoms of invalidism that he must have forgotten his stake.  But no sooner did he supply the missing counter than Zephirine and Jacqueline were seized with remorse; they imagined that, possibly, they themselves had forgotten their stake; they believed—­they doubted—­but, after all, the chevalier was rich enough to bear such a trifling misfortune.  These dignified and noble personages had the delightful pettiness of suspecting each other.  Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel would almost invariably accuse the rector of cheating when he won the basket.

“It is singular,” he would reply, “that I never cheat except when I win the trick.”

Often the baron would forget where he was when the talk fell on the misfortunes of the royal house.  Sometimes the evening ended in a manner that was quite unexpected to the players, who all counted on a certain gain.  After a certain number of games and when the hour grew late, these excellent people would be forced to separate without either loss or gain, but not without emotion.  On these sad evenings complaints were made of mouche itself; it was dull, it was long; the players accused their mouche as Negroes stone the moon in the water when the weather is bad.  On one occasion, after an arrival of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Kergarouet, there was talk of whist and boston being games of more interest than mouche.  The baroness, who was bored by mouche, encouraged the innovation, and all the company —­but not without reluctance—­adopted it.  But it proved impossible to make them really understand the new games, which, on the departure of the Kergarouets, were voted head-splitters, algebraic problems, and intolerably difficult to play.  All preferred their mouche, their dear, agreeable mouche. Mouche accordingly triumphed over modern games, as all ancient things have ever triumphed in Brittany over novelties.

While the rector was dealing the cards the baroness was asking the Chevalier du Halga the same questions which she had asked him the evening before about his health.  The chevalier made it a point of honor to have new ailments.  Inquiries might be alike, but the nautical hero had singular advantages in the way of replies.  To-day it chanced that his ribs troubled him.  But here’s a remarkable thing! never did the worthy chevalier complain of his wounds.  The ills that were really the matter with him he expected, he knew them and he bore them; but his fancied ailments, his headaches, the gnawings in his stomach, the buzzing in his ears, and a thousand other fads and symptoms made him horribly uneasy; he posed as incurable,—­and not without reason, for doctors up to the present time have found no remedy for diseases that don’t exist.