It was all quite otherwise alarming
than the romantic tales and scenes of German drama lead one to expect;
here was suffocating actuality. The air diffused a sort of dizzy
heaviness, the dim light rasped the nerves. When the Southerner,
impelled by a species of self-assertion, gazed firmly at the toad, he
felt a sort of emetic heat at the pit of his stomach, and was
conscious of a terror like that a criminal might feel in presence of a
gendarme. He endeavoured to brace himself by looking at Madame
Fontaine; but there he encountered two almost white eyes, the
motionless and icy pupils of which were absolutely intolerable to him.
The silence became terrifying.
"Which do you wish, monsieur, the five-franc fortune, the ten-franc
fortune, or the grand game?"
"The five-franc fortune is dear enough," replied the Southerner,
making powerful efforts not to yield to the influence of the
surroundings in which he found himself.
At the moment when Gazonal was thus endeavouring to collect himself, a
voice--an infernal voice--made him bound in his chair; the black hen
clucked.
"Go back, my daughter, go back; monsieur chooses to spend only five
francs."
The hen seemed to understand her mistress, for, after coming within a
foot of the cards, she turned and resumed her former place.
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