Alphonse was playing with a couple of friends.
He had been to the buffet and greeted Madame Virginie, and she,
who had long noticed how Alphonse was growing paler day by day,
had--half in jest, half in anxiety--reproached him with his
thoughtless life.
Alphonse answered with a poor joke and asked for absinthe.
How she hated those light ladies of the ballet and the opera who
enticed Monsieur Alphonse to revel night after night at the
gaming-table, or at interminable suppers! How ill he had been
looking these last few weeks! He had grown quite thin, and the
great gentle eyes had acquired a piercing, restless look. What
would she not give to be able to rescue him out of that life that
was dragging him down! She glanced in the opposite mirror and
thought she had beauty enough left.
Now and then the door opened and a new guest came in, stamped his
feet, and shut his wet umbrella. All bowed to Madame Virginie, and
almost all said, "What horrible weather!"
When Charles entered, he saluted shortly and took a seat in the
corner beside the fireplace.
Alphonse's eyes had indeed become restless. He looked towards the
door every time any one came in; and when Charles appeared, a
spasm passed over his face and he missed his stroke.
"Monsieur Alphonse is not in the vein to-day," said an onlooker.
Soon after a strange gentleman came in. Charles looked up from his
paper and nodded slightly; the stranger raised his eyebrows a
little and looked at Alphonse.
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