of perhaps
twenty-eight, who gave him odds,--as better players of twenty-eight
ought to give odds to a player, though originally of equal force, whose
eye is not so quick, whose hand is not so steady, as they were twenty
years ago. Said Graham to himself, "The bearded man is my Vicomte." He
called for a cup of coffee, and seated himself on a bench at the end of
the room.

The bearded man was far behind in the game. It was his turn to play; the
balls were placed in the most awkward position for him. Graham himself
was a fair billiard-player, both in the English and the French game.
He said to himself, "No man who can make a cannon there should accept
odds." The bearded man made a cannon; the bearded man continued to make
cannons; the bearded man did not stop till he had won the game. The
gallery of spectators was enthusiastic. Taking care to speak in very
bad, very English-French, Graham expressed to one of the enthusiasts
seated beside him his admiration of the bearded man's playing, and
ventured to ask if the bearded man were a professional or an amateur
player.

"Monsieur," replied the enthusiast, taking a short cutty-pipe from his
mouth, "it is an amateur, who has been a great player in his day, and is
so proud that he always takes less odds than he ought of a younger man.
It is not once in a month that he comes out as he has done to-night; but
to-night he has steadied his hand. He has had six petits verres."

"Ah, indeed! Do you know his name?"

"I should think so: he buried my father, my two aunts, and my wife."

"Buried?" said Graham, more and more British in his accent; "I don't
understand."

"Monsieur, you are English."

"I confess it."

"And a stranger to the Faubourg Montmartre."

"True."

"Or you would have heard of M. Giraud, the liveliest member of the State
Company for conducting funerals. They are going to play La Poule."

Much disconcerted, Graham retreated into the cafe, and seated himself
haphazard at one of the small tables. Glancing round the room, he saw no
one in whom he could conjecture the once brilliant Vicomte.

The company appeared to him sufficiently decent, and especially what may
be called local. There were some blouses drinking wine, no doubt of the
cheapest and thinnest; some in rough, coarse dresses, drinking beer.
These were evidently English, Belgian, or German artisans. At one table,
four young men, who looked like small journeymen, were playing cards.
At three other t