As he waited a moment, looking about him triumphantly, his eye lighted on a terrible kill-joy.

Standing among the spectators with his chin on his cane, du Portail was steadily watching him.
A tinge of red showed itself in Cerizet's cheeks.

He hesitated to bow or to recognize the old gentleman, a most unlikely person to meet in such a place.

Not knowing how to take the unpleasant encounter, he went on playing; but his hand betrayed his uneasiness, and presently an unlucky stroke threw him out of the game.

While he was putting on his coat in a tolerably ill-humor, du Portail passed, almost brushing him, on his way to the door.
"Rue Montmartre, at the farther end of the Passage," said the old man, in a low tone.
When they met, Cerizet had the bad taste to try to explain the disreputable position in which he had just been detected.
"But," said du Portail, "in order to see you there, I had to be there myself." "True," returned Cerizet.