THE COUNT'S MILLIONS. Emile Gaboriau
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was habitual to him, he added: “As for being the sage you call me, that’s all nonsense. And to prove it, I’m going to risk my louis with the rest.”
M. de Coralth seemed amazed, but a close observer might have detected a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You are going to play—you?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Take care!”
“Of what, pray? The worst I can do is to lose what I have in my pocket—something over two hundred francs.”
The viscount shook his head thoughtfully. “It isn’t that which one has cause to fear. The devil always has a hand in this business, and the first time a man plays he’s sure to win.”
“And is that a misfortune?”
“Yes, because the recollection of these first winnings is sure to lure you back to the gaming-table again. You go back, you lose, you try to recover your money, and that’s the end of it—you become a gambler.”
Pascal Ferailleur’s smile was the smile of a man who has full confidence in himself. “My brain is not so easily turned, I hope,” said he. “I have the thought of my name, and the fortune I must make, as ballast for it.”
“I beseech you not to play,” insisted the viscount. “Listen to me; you don’t know what this passion for play is; the strongest and the coldest natures succumb—don’t play.”
He had raised his voice, as if he intended to be overheard by two guests who had just approached the sofa. They did indeed hear him. “Can I believe my own eyes and ears!” exclaimed one of them, an elderly man. “Can this really be Ferdinand who is trying to shake the allegiance of the votaries of our noble lady—the Queen of Spades?”
M. de Coralth turned quickly round: “Yes, it is indeed I,” he answered. “I have purchased with my patrimony the right of saying: ‘Distrust yourself, and don’t do as I’ve done,’ to an inexperienced friend.”
The wisest counsels, given in a certain fashion, never fail to produce an effect diametrically opposed to that which they seemingly aim at. M. de Coralth’s persistence, and the importance he attached to a mere trifle, could not fail to annoy the most patient man in the world, and in fact his patronizing tone really irritated Pascal. “You are free, my friend, to do as you please,” said he; “but I——”
“Are you resolved?” interrupted the viscount.
“Absolutely.”
“So be it, then. You are no longer a child, and I have warned you. Let us play, then.” Thereupon they approached the table; room was made for them, and they seated themselves, Pascal being on M. Ferdinand de Coralth’s right-hand side.
The guests were playing “Baccarat tournant,” a game of terrible and infantile simplicity. There are no such things as skill or combination possible in it; science and calculation are useless. Chance alone decides, and decides with the rapidity of lightning. Amateurs certainly assert that, with great coolness and long practice, one can, in a measure at least, avert prolonged ill-luck. Maybe they are right, but it is not conclusively proved. Each person takes the cards in his turn, risks what he chooses, and when his stakes are covered, deals. If he wins, he is free to follow up his vein of good-luck, or to pass the deal. When he loses, the deal passes at once to the next player on the right.
A moment sufficed for Pascal Ferailleur to learn the rules of the game. It was already Ferdinand’s deal. M. de Coralth staked a hundred francs; the bet was taken; he dealt, lost, and handed the cards to Pascal.
The play, which had been rather timid at first—since it was necessary, as they say, to try the luck—had now become bolder. Several players had large piles of gold before them, and the heavy artillery—that is to say, bank-notes—were beginning to put in appearance. But Pascal had no false pride. “I stake a louis!” said he
The smallness of the sum attracted instant attention, and two or three voices replied: “Taken!”
He dealt, and won. “Two louis!” he said again. This wager was also taken; he won, and his run of luck was so remarkable that, in a wonderfully short space of time, he won six hundred francs.
“Pass the deal,” whispered Ferdinand, and Pascal followed this advice. “Not because I desire to keep my winnings,” he whispered in M. de Coralth’s ear, “but because I wish to have enough to play until the end of the evening without risking anything.”
But such prudence was unnecessary so far as he was concerned. When the deal came to him again, fortune favored him even more than before. He started with a hundred francs, and doubling them each time in six successive deals, he won more than three thousand francs.
“The devil! Monsieur is in luck.”—“Zounds! And he is playing for the first time.”—“That accounts for it. The inexperienced always win.”
Pascal could not fail to hear these comments. The blood mantled over his cheeks, and, conscious that he was flushing, he, as usually happens, flushed still more. His good fortune embarrassed him, as was evident, and he played most recklessly. Still his good luck did not desert him; and do what he would he won—won continually. In fact, by four o’clock in the morning he had thirty-five thousand francs before him.
For some time he had been the object of close attention. “Do you know this gentleman?” inquired one of the guests.
“No. He came with Coralth.”
“He is an advocate, I understand.”
And all these whispered doubts and suspicions, these questions fraught with an evil significance, these uncharitable replies, grew into a malevolent murmur, which resounded in Pascal’s ears and bewildered him. He was really becoming most uncomfortable, when Madame d’Argeles approached the card-table and exclaimed: “This is the third time, gentlemen, that you have been told that supper is ready. What gentleman will offer me his arm?”
There was an evident unwillingness to leave the table, but an old gentleman who had been losing heavily rose to his feet. “Yes, let us go to supper!” he exclaimed; “perhaps that will change the luck.”
This was a decisive consideration. The room emptied as if by magic; and no one was left at the table but Pascal, who scarcely knew what to do with all the gold piled up before him. He succeeded, however, in distributing it in his pockets, and was about to join the other guests in the dining-room, when Madame d’Argeles abruptly barred his passage.
“I desire a word with you, monsieur,” she said. Her face still retained its strange immobility, and the same stereotyped smile played about her lips. And yet her agitation was so evident that Pascal, in spite of his own uneasiness, noticed it, and was astonished by it.
“I am at your service, madame,” he stammered, bowing.
She at once took his arm, and led him to the embrasure of a window. “I am a stranger to you, monsieur,” she said, very hurriedly, and in very low tones, “and yet I must ask, and you must grant me, a great favor.”
“Speak, madame.”
She hesitated, as if at a loss for words, and then all of a sudden she said, eagerly: “You will leave this house at once, without warning any one, and while the other guests are at supper.”
Pascal’s astonishment changed into stupor.
“Why am I to go?” he asked.
“Because—but, no; I cannot tell you. Consider it only a caprice on my part—it is so; but I entreat you, don’t refuse me. Do me this favor, and I shall be eternally grateful.”
There was such an agony of supplication in her voice and her attitude, that Pascal was touched. A vague presentiment of some terrible, irreparable misfortune disturbed his own heart. Nevertheless, he sadly shook his head, and bitterly exclaimed: “You are, perhaps, not aware that I have just won over thirty thousand francs.”
“Yes, I am aware of it. And this is only another, and still