Sylvester's tale was received by the Brethren with their full approval. It was held to be truly Serapiontic, because, whilst founded on historical fact, it yet soared into the region of the imaginative.
Lothair said: "Our Sylvester has got very well out of a somewhat risky undertaking, for that, I consider, was the representing of a literary old maid who kept a sort ofbureau d'espritin the Rue St. Honoré, which he lets us have a peep into. Our own authoresses (and if they chance to be advanced in years, I hope they may all be genial, kind, and dignified as the old lady in the black dress) would be much delighted with you, my Sylvester, if they heard your story, and forgive you your somewhat gruesome and terrible Cardillac, whom, I suppose, you have altogether to thank your own imagination for."
"At the same time," said Ottmar, "I remember having read, somewhere or other, of an old shoemaker in Venice, whom the whole town looked upon as a good, exemplary, industrious man, though he really was the most atrocious robber and murderer. Just like Cardillac, he used to slip out in the night-time and get into the palazzi of the great, where, in the depths of darkness, his surely-dealt dagger-thrust pierced the hearts of those whom he wanted to rob, so that they dropped down on the spot without a cry. Every effort of the most clever and observant police to detect this murderer, who kept all Venice in terror, was useless, until a circumstance led to the shoemaker's being suspected. He fell sick, and, strange to say, as long as he was confined to his bed there were no murders. They began again as soon as he was well. On some pretext he was put in prison, and, just as was expected, so long as he was shut up the palaces were in security; but the moment he got out (there being no proof of anything against him) the victims fell just as before. Finally the rack extracted his secret, and he was executed. A strange thing was that he had made no use whatever of the stolen property; it was all found stowed away under the flooring of his room. He said, in the naïvest manner, that he had made a vow to St. Rochus, the patron of his craft, that he would get together a certain, pretty considerable, sum by robbery, and then stop; and complained of the hardship of having been apprehended before the said sum was arrived at."
"I never heard of the Venetian shoemaker," said Sylvester; "but if I am truly to tell you the source from whence I drew, I must inform you that the words spoken by Mademoiselle Scuderi, 'Un amant qui craint les voleurs,' &c., were really made use of by her, in almost similar circumstances to those of my story. Also the affair of the offering from the band of robbers is by no means a creature of the brain of the felicitously inspired writer. The account of that you will find in a book where you certainly would not look for it, Wagenseil's 'Nuernberg Chronicle.' The old gentleman speaks of a visit he made to Mademoiselle Scuderi in Paris, and if I have succeeded in representing her as charming and delightful, I am indebted solely to the distinguishedcourtoisiewith which Wagenseil mentions her."
"Verily," said Theodore, laughing, "to stumble upon Mademoiselle Scuderi in the 'Nuernberg Chronicle' requires an author's lucky hand, such as Sylvester is specially gifted with. In fact, he shines on us to-night in his double capacity of playwright and story-teller, like the constellation of the Dioscuri."
"That is just where he seems to me so vain," said Vincenz. "A man who writes a good play ought not to set to work to tell a good tale as well."
"Yet it is strange," said Cyprian, "that authors who can tell a story well, who manage their characters and situations cleverly, often fail altogether in drama for the stage."
"But," said Lothair, "are not the conditions of drama and of narrative so essentially different in their fundamental elements, that the attempt to turn a story into a play is very often a complete failure? You understand that I am speaking of true narrative, not of the novel, so much, because that has often in it germs from which the drama can grow up like a glorious, beautiful tree."
"What do you think," asked Vincenz, "of the admirable idea of making a story out of a play? Some years ago I read Iffland's 'Jaeger' turned into a story, and you can't believe how delightful and touching little Anton with the couteau de chasse, and Riekchen with the lost shoe, were in this shape. It was delightful, too, that the author, or adapter, preserved whole scenes unchanged, merely putting in the 'said he,' and 'answered she,' between the speeches. I assure you I did not wholly realise the truly poetic imagination, and the deep sublimity which there is in Iffland's 'Jaeger,' until I read it in this form. Moreover, the scientific side of it struck me then, and I saw how properly it was classed in a certain library under the head 'Science of Forestry.'"
"Cease your funning," said Lothair, "and lend, with us, an attentive ear to the worthy Serapion Brother who, as I perceive, has just pulled a manuscript out of his pocket."
"This time," said Theodore, "I have trespassed upon another's ground. However, there is a real incident at the basis of my story, not taken from any book, but told to me by another."
He read:--
In the summer of 18-- Pyrmont was more than usually frequented, and the influx of visitors, rich and great, increased from day to day, exciting the eager emulation of the various speculators and purveyors of their wants. Particularly did the faro-table keepers heap up piles of gold in unusual quantity, for the attraction of the noble game, which, like experienced sportsmen, they set themselves to decoy. As we all know, at watering-places especially--where people resolve to give themselves up, at their own sweet will, to whatever amusements may be most to their taste, to get through the time---the attractions of the play-table are not easy to resist. We see people who never touch a card at other times, absorbed at those tables; and, in fact, among the upper classes, at all events, it is thought only a proper thing to stake something every evening.
There was but one exception to this otherwise universal rule, in the person of a young German Baron, whom we shall call Siegfried. When everybody else rushed to the tables, and there was no way left to him to amuse himself in what he considered a rational manner, he preferred taking a lonely walk, yielding to the play of his fancy, or would stay at home, amusing himself with a book, or sometimes writing something himself.
He was young, independent, good-looking, well off, pleasant in manners, so of course he was very popular, and his success with the other sex was distinguished. But besides all this, there appeared to be a special lucky star watching over everything he undertook. People talked of many love-affairs, comprising risky adventures of which he had been the hero, which, though certain to have proved disastrous to most men, he had got out of with marvellous ease and facility. Old gentlemen who knew him would speak, particularly, of the affair of a certain watch, which had happened in his very early days. It chanced, before he came to his majority, that, on a journey, he unexpectedly found himself in such a strait for money that, to get on at all, he had to sell his watch, a beautiful gold one set with brilliants. Seeing no alternative, he had made up his mind to part with it much under its value; but it so happened that, in the hotel where he was living, there was a young prince who was on the look-out for just such a watch; so that he got more for it than it was worth. Rather more than a year afterwards--having come to his majority in the meantime--he read in the newspaper, at another place where he was, that a watch was going to be raffled. He took a ticket, costing only a trifle, and won the very watch set in brilliants which he had sold. Soon afterwards, he swopped this watch away for a valuable ring. Presently, having been for a time in the service of the Prince of G----, as he was leaving, the Prince gave him, as a souvenir, the self-same watch which he had twice got rid of--and a handsome chain into the bargain.
Then, people went on to talk about Siegfried's fancy of never touching a card--which, considering his extraordinary luck, he ought to be just the man to do; and everybody came to the conclusion that, in spite of all his delightful qualities, the Baron was a screw; far too canny to risk a little of his cash. That his whole conduct completely excluded the idea of his being avaricious, didn't matter. People are always anxious, and delighted to fasten an objectionable "but" on to a man of gifts, and to find out this "but" wherever they can, be it only in their own imaginations. So everybody was quite satisfied with this explanation of Siegfried's hatred of the play-table.
He very soon found out what he was accused of; and, being large-minded and liberal--hating nothing so much as avarice--he determined to show his calumniators how much they were mistaken, and--much as he detested play--sacrifice a hundred Louis d'Ors or so--more if necessary--to prove to them their error. He went to the faro-table with the firm resolution to lose the rather considerable sum which he had in his pocket. But the luck which accompanied him in everything he set about was true to him here too. Everything he staked on won. His luck shipwrecked the cabalistic calculations of the old, deeply experienced gamblers. It was all the same whether he exchanged his cards, or stuck to them; he always won. He furnished a unique instance of aponteurwild with disgust because the cards favoured him. The by-standers, watching him, shook their heads significantly at each other, implying that the Baron might come to lose his head, carried along by this concatenation of the unusual. For indeed, a man who was furious because he was lucky, must surely be alittleoff his head.
The very circumstance that he had won a considerable sum necessitated him to go on playing; and as this gain must, in all probability, be followed by a still greater loss, he felt bound to carry out his original plan. However, he found it not so easy; his extraordinary luck continued to stick to him.
Without his exactly noticing it himself, a love for the game of Faro arose within him, and grew. In its very simpleness, Faro is, in truth, the most mysterious of all games.
He was not annoyed at being luckynow. The game fettered his attention, and kept him absorbed in it, night after night, till morning. As it was not the winning which interested him, but the game itself, he was forced to admit the existence of that extraordinaryspellconnected with it which his friends had spoken of to him, but which he had refused to believe in.
One night when the banker had just finished a "taille," on looking up he saw an elderly man, who had placed himself opposite to him, and was keeping a grave, melancholy gaze fixed upon him. And every time Siegfried looked up from his game, he found this grave, melancholy gaze still fixed upon him, so that he could not divest himself of a strong, rather eery sensation. The Stranger did not go away till the playing was over for the night. Next evening he was there again, in his old place opposite the Baron, gazing at him continually, with his gloomy, spectral eves. The Baron restrained himself; but when, on the third night, the Stranger was there again, gazing at him with eyes of devouring fire, Siegfried broke out: "I must really beg you, sir, to select some other place. You are interfering with my play."
The stranger bowed, with a pained smile, and, without a word, left the table, and the room.
But the following night he was standing in his old place, opposite to Siegfried, transfixing him with his gloomy, glowing eyes. The Baron broke out more angrily than on the previous night. "If it is any entertainment to you, sir, to glare at me in that sort of manner, I must beg you to select another place and another time. But--for the present"--a motion of the hand in the direction of the door took the place of the hard words which the Baron had on the tip of his tongue.
And, as on the previous night, the Stranger, bowing with the same pained smile, left the room. Excited by the game, by the wine he had taken, and by the encounter with the Stranger, Siegfried could not sleep. When morning broke, the whole appearance of the Stranger rose to his memory. He saw the expressive face, the well-cut features, marked with sorrow, the hollow gloomy eyes which had gazed at him. He noticed that though he was poorly dressed, his refined manners and bearing spoke of good birth and up-bringing. And then the way in which he had received the hard words with quiet resignation, and gone away, swallowing the bitterness of his feelings with a power over himself. "Oh!" said Siegfried, "I was wrong--I did him great injustice. Is it like me to fly into a passion, and insult people without rhyme or reason, like a foolish boy?" He came to the conclusion that the man had been gazing at him with a bitter sense of the tremendous contrast between them. At the moment when he--perhaps--was in the depths of distress, the Baron was heaping gold on the top of gold, and carrying all before him. He determined that the first thing in the morning he would go and find out the Stranger, and do something to remedy his condition.
And, as fate would have it, the Stranger was the first person he met, as he was taking a walk down the Alleé.
The Baron addressed him, apologised for his behaviour on the previous night, and formally asked him to forgive him. The Stranger said there was nothing to forgive. People who were much interested in their game must have every consideration, and he quite deserved to be reminded that he was obstinately planting himself in a place where he could not but put the Baron out in his play.
The Baron went further. He spoke of the circumstance that in life temporary difficulties often come upon people of education in the most trying manner, and he gave him pretty clearly to understand that he was ready to pay him back the money he had won from him, or more, if necessary, should that be likely to be of any assistance to him.
"My dear sir," said the Stranger, "you suppose that I am pressed for money. Strictly speaking, I am not. Although I am rather a poor man than a rich, I have enough for my little requirements. And you will see in a moment, if you consider, that if you should suppose you could atone for an insult to me by offering me a sum of money, I could not accept it, even as a mere ordinary man of honour. And I am a Chevalier."
"I think I understand you," said the Baron; "I am quite ready to give you satisfaction in the way you mean."
"Oh, good heavens!" the Stranger said; "what a very unequal affair a fight would be between us. I feel sure that, like myself, you do not look upon the duel as a mere piece of childish fanfaronade, nor consider that a drop or two of blood--perhaps from a scratched finger--can wash a stained honour white again. No, no! there are plenty of causes which render it impossible for two men to go on existing on this earth at the same time. Although one of them may be on the Caucasus and the other on the Tiber, there is no separation between them so long as the notion of the existence of the hated one subsists. In a case like that the duel, which is to decide the question which of those two is to make way on this earth for the other, is a positive necessity. But betweenusa duel, as I said, would be one-sided, since my life is nothing like as valuable as yours. If I killed you I should destroy a whole world of the fairest hopes. But if I fell, you would end a miserable existence, marred by the most bitter and painful memories. However, the chief point is that I do not consider myself in the smallest degree offended. You told me to go, and I went."
He spoke the latter words in a tone which betrayed his inward mortification, which was sufficient reason for the Baron to apologise to him once more, laying special weight on the circumstance that the Stranger's gaze seemed somehow (he could not tell why) to go penetrating into him to such an extent that he could bear it no longer.
"If my gaze penetrated you, as you say it did," said the Stranger, "would to God it had carried with it the conviction of the threatening peril in which you stand. In your gladness of heart, with all your youthful unknowingness, you are hovering on the very brink of a terrible abyss. One single impulse, and into it you fall, without the possibility of rescue. In one word, you are on the point of becoming a passionate gambler, and of going to perdition."
The Baron assured him that he was completely mistaken. He explained to him how it was that he had been led at first to go to the tables, and that the true love of play was completely absent from him--that all he desired was to lose a few hundred louis, and, having accomplished that, he would play no more; but that, up to this time, he had had the most extraordinary luck.
"Alas!" cried the Stranger, "it is just that very luck which is the most terrible, mocking temptation of the Infernal Power. Just this very luck of yours, Baron, the whole way in which you have been led on to play, the whole style of your playing, and everything connected with the matter, show but too plainly how your interest in it keeps on increasing and increasing. Everything about it reminds me only too clearly of the fate of an unfortunate fellow who begun exactly as you have done. This was why I could not take my eyes from you, why I could scarce refrain from telling you in words what my eyes intended to say to you, namely, 'For heaven's sake look at the fiends that are stretching out their talons to drag you down to perdition;' that is what I longed to cry out to you. I wished to make your acquaintance, and in that I have succeeded. Let me tell you the story of the unfortunate man to whom I have referred, and then perhaps you will see that it is no idle cobweb of my brain which makes me see you to be in the most imminent peril, and that I give you fair warning."
They sate down on a seat which was in a lonely place, and the Stranger commenced as follows. "The same brilliant gifts which distinguish you, Baron, procured for the Chevalier Menars the respect and admiration of men, and rendered him the beloved of women. Only as far as wealth was concerned fortune had not been so kind to him as to you. He was on the confines of penury, and nothing but the most scrupulous economy enabled him to keep up the decent appearance which his position as the descendant of a family of condition demanded of him. Since the very smallest loss of money would have been of much consequence to him, upsetting all his course of life, he was precluded from everything in the shape of play. But he had not the smallest inclination for it, so that his avoidance of it involved not the slightest sacrifice on his part. He was excessively lucky in whatever he undertook, so that his good fortune became a species of proverb.
"Contrarily to his habit he allowed himself to be persuaded one night to go to a gambling-house, where the friends who were with him were soon deep in the game.
"Taking no interest in the game, with his mind fully occupied about something else, he strolled up and down the room, just now and then casting a glance at the table, where the gold was streaming in upon the banquier from every side. All at once an elderly Colonel observed him, and cried out, 'Oh, the devil! here's the Chevalier Menars, with his luck, and none of us can win because he hasn't taken a side. This won't do. He must stake for me instantly.'
"The Chevalier tried his utmost to excuse himself, saying he knew nothing about the game. But nothing would serve the Colonel but that he must to the table willy nilly.
"It happened to him exactly as it did to you, Baron. He won on every card, so that he soon had hauled in a considerable sum for the Colonel, who could not congratulate himself enough on the great idea he had been inspired with of availing himself of the celebrated luck of the Chevalier Menars.
"On the Chevalier himself his luck, which so astonished all the others, made not the slightest impression. Nay, he did not himself quite understand how it came about that his detestation of play, if possible, increased, so that the next morning, when he felt the languor and listlessness consequent on having sat up so late, and gone through the excitement, he made a firm resolution that nothing would ever induce him to enter a gambling-house again.
"This resolution was strengthened by the conduct of the old Colonel, who had the most extraordinary ill-luck as soon as he took a card in his hand, and attributed this, in the most absurd way, to the Chevalier. And he insisted, in the most importunate manner, that Menars should either play his cards for him, or at all events be at his side when he played himself, by way of exorcising the demon who placed in his hand the losing cards. We know that nowhere is there such absurd superstition as amongst gamblers. It was only with the utmost difficulty that Menars managed to shake the Colonel off. He had even to go the length of telling him he would rather fight him than stake for him; and the Colonel was by no means fond of fighting. The Chevalier cursed himself for ever having yielded to the old ass at all.
"Of course the story of the Chevalier's luck could not but be passed on from one to another, with all sorts of mysterious, inexplicable additions added on to it, representing him as a man in league with supernatural powers. But that one who had his luck should go on abstaining from touching cards was a thing which could not but give the highest idea of the firmness of his character, and much increase the consideration in which he was held.
"A year after this the Chevalier found himself in the most pressing and distressing embarrassment in consequence of the non-payment to him of the trifling sum on which he managed by a struggle to live. He was obliged to confide this to his most intimate friend, who, without a moment's hesitation, helped him to what he required, at the same time telling him he was the most extraordinary, eccentric individual the world had ever probably contained.
"'Destiny,' he said, 'gives us hints, indications of the direction in which we have to seek and find our welfare, and it is only our indolence which is to blame when we neglect those hints and fail to understand them. The Power which rules over us has very distinctly whispered into your ear, "If thou wouldest have money and possessions, go and play; otherwise thou wilt for ever remain poor, needy, dependent."'
"Then, for the first time, the thought of the wonderful luck he had had at the faro table rose vividly before his mind's eye, and, waking and dreaming, he saw cards before him, and heard the monotonousgagne-perdof the banquier, and the clink of the gold pieces.
"'It is true,' he said to himself, 'a single night like that one would raise me out of poverty, and free me from the terrible necessity of being a burden on my friends. It is simply a duty to follow the promptings of Destiny.'
"The same friend who advised him to take to playing went with him to the table, and, to make him easy in his mind, presented him with twenty louis d'or.
"If his game had been an extraordinary one when he was staking for the old Colonel, it was doubly so now. He drew out his cards by chance, by accident, and staked on them, whatever they happened to be. And the unseen hand of that higher Power, which is in league with that which we term 'Chance'--nay, whichisthat Chance--directed his play. When the game was done he had won 1000 louis d'or.
"Next morning he felt in a sort of stupor on awaking. The money was lying on the table by his bed, just as he had shaken it out of his pockets. At first he thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes and drew the table nearer to him. But as he gradually recollected what had happened--when he sunk his hands well into the heap of gold money, and counted the coins delightedly over and over again--suddenly there awoke in him, and passed through his being like a poisoned breath, the love of the vile mammon. The pureness of mind which had so long been his was gone.
"He could scarcely wait till evening came to get back to the play-table. His luck continued to attend him, so that in a few weeks, during which he played every night, he had won a very large sum.
"There are two sorts of gamblers. To many the game in itself presents an indescribable, mysterious joy, quite without any reference to winning. The wonderful enchainments of the chances alternate in the most marvellous variety; the influence of the Powers which govern the issue displays itself, so that, inspired by this, our spirits stretch their wings in an attempt to reach that darksome realm, that mysterious laboratory, where the Power in question works, and there see it working. I knew a man once who used to sit alone in his room for days and nights keeping banque, and staking against himself. That man, I consider, was a proper player. Others have only the gain in view, and look upon the game as a means of winning money quickly. The Chevalier belonged to the latter class, thereby proving the theory that the true passion for play must exist in a person's nature, and be born with him.
"For this reason the circle within which the mere ponteur is restricted soon became too narrow for him. With the very large sum he had now won he started a banque of his own; and here, too, fortune favoured him, so that in a very short time his was the richest banque in Paris. As lies in the nature of things, to him, as the luckiest, richest banquier, resorted the greatest number of players.
"The wild rugged life of a gambler soon blotted out in him all those mental and bodily superiorities which had formerly brought him love and consideration. He ceased to be a faithful friend, an open-hearted pleasant companion, a chivalric and gallant honourer of ladies. His love for art and science was extinguished, as well as all his wish to make progress in knowledge of the desirable sort. In his deathly pale countenance and gloomy eyes, sparkling with darksome fire, was imprinted the plain expression of that devouring passion which held him fast in its bands. It was not the love of play, it was the most detestable avarice, the craving for money, which the Devil himself had kindled within him. In one word, he was the most thorough specimen of a banquier ever seen.
"One night--though he had not, so to speak, lost very much--he found that fortune had not been quite so favourable to him as usual. And just at this juncture there came up to the table a little old weazened man, in poverty-stricken clothes, and altogether of almost disgustingly repulsive appearance. He drew a card, with shaking hand, and staked a piece of gold on it. Several of those at the table looked at him with deep amazement, and immediately behaved towards him with conspicuous despite; but he took not the slightest notice, not even by a look, far less by a word.
"He lost--lost one piece of gold after another, and the more he lost the better the other players were pleased. And when the old man, who kept on doubling his stakes, at last staked five hundred louis on a card, and lost it in a moment, one of them cried out, laughing loud, 'Well done, Signor Vertua; keep it up! Don't give in; keep up your game! You seem to me as if you would certainly break the bank, your luck is so splendid!'
"The old man darted a basilisk look at him, and ran off out of the room as quickly as he could; but only to come back in half an hour, with his pockets crammed with gold. When the finaltaillecame he could not go on, as he had lost all the money he brought with him the second time.
"The Chevalier, who, notwithstanding all the atrocity of his ongoings, still insisted on there being a certain observance of ordinaryconvenanceamongst the frequenters of his establishment, had been in the highest degree displeased at the derision and contempt with which the old man had been treated, which was sufficient reason for his talking very seriously, when the evening's play was over, to the man who had jeered at him, and to one or two others whose contemptuous behaviour to him had been the most striking, and whom the Chevalier had begged to remain behind on purpose.
"'That fellow,' one of them cried out. 'You don't know old Francesco Vertua, Chevalier, or you wouldn't find fault with us for what we did. You would rather thank us. This Vertua, by birth a Neapolitan, has been for fifteen years here, in Paris, the most vile, foul, wicked miser and usurer that could exist. He is lost to every feeling of humanity. If his own brother were to drag himself to his door, writhing in the death agony, and curl round about his feet, he wouldn't give a louis d'or to help him. The curses and execrations of heaps of people, whole families, whom he has driven to ruin by his infernal machinations, lie heavy on him. There is nobody who does not pray that vengeance for what he has done, and is always doing, may overtake him and finish his sin-spotted life. He has never played, at all events since he has been in Paris, and you need not be astonished at our surprise when we saw the old skinflint come to the table. Of course we were just as delighted at his losing, for it would have been altogether too bad if fortune had favoured the scoundrel. The wealth of your banque has dazzled the old noodle. He thought he was going to pluck you, but he has lost his own feathers. But the thing I can't understand is how he can have made up his miserly mind to play so high.'
"This, however, did not prove well founded, for the next night Vertua made his appearance, and staked and lost a great deal more than on the night before. He was quite impassible all the time; in fact, he now and then smiled with a bitter irony, as one who knew how utterly differently everything would soon turn. But his losses swelled like a mountain avalanche on each of the succeeding nights, so that at last it was calculated that he had lost to the banque well on to thirty thousand louis d'or. After this, he came one night, long after the play had begun, pale as death, with his face all drawn, and stationed himself at some distance from the table, with his eyes fixed on the cards which the Chevalier was dealing. At last, when the Chevalier had shuffled, had the cards cut, and was going to begin the deal, the old man cried out, in a screaming voice, 'Stop!' Every one looked round, almost terrified. The old man elbowed his way through the crowd close up to the Chevalier, and whispered into his ear, 'Chevalier, my house in the Rue St. Honoré, with all its contents, in furniture, gold, silver, and jewels, is valued at eighty thousand francs. I stake it! Do you accept?'
"'Yes,' said the Chevalier calmly, without looking at him, and began to deal.
"'Queen!' said the old man, and the queen lost. The old man fell back, and leaned against the wall, motionless as a stone image. Nobody troubled himself further about him. When the game was over for the night, and the Chevalier and his croupiers were packing away the won money in the strong box, Vertua came wavering like a spectre forward out of his corner. In a hollow, faint voice, he said, 'One word, Chevalier; one single word.'
"'Well, what is it?' said the Chevalier, taking the key from the box and putting it in his pocket, as he surveyed the old man contemptuously from head to foot.
"'I have lost all I possessed in the world to your banque, Chevalier. I have nothing left--nothing. I don't know where I shall lay my head to-morrow, or how I shall appease my hunger. I betake myself to you. Lend me the tenth part of the sum you have won from me, that I may recommence my business, and raise myself from the depths of poverty.'
"'How can you be so absurd, Signor Vertua,' said the Chevalier. 'Don't you know that a banquier never lends his winnings? It would be against all the rules, and I abide by them.'
"'You are right, Chevalier,' said Vertua. 'What I asked was absurd, extravagant. Not a tenth part--lend me a twentieth part.'
"'What I tell you is,' said the Chevalier, 'that I never lend any of my winnings.'
"'Quite right,' said Vertua, his face growing paler and paler, and his looks more fixed and staring. 'Of course you can't lend. I never used to do it myself. But give an alms to a beggar. Let him have one hundred louis d'or out of the fortune which blind Chance threw to you tonight.'
"'Well, really, Signor Vertua, you understand how to bother,' was the Chevalier's answer. 'I tell you that not one hundred, nor fifty, nor twenty, nor one single louis d'or will you get out of me. I should be a lunatic to give you any help towards recommencing your shameful trade. Fate has dashed you down into the dust like a venomous reptile, and it would be a crime to lift you up. Be off with you, and die, as you deserve to do.'
"Vertua sank down, with both his hands before his face. The Chevalier ordered his servants to take the Strong box down to the carriage, and then cried out, in a domineering way, 'When are you going to make over your house and effects to me, Signor Vertua?'
"Vertua raised himself from the ground, saying, in a firm voice, 'At once. This very moment, Chevalier. Come with me.'
"'Good,' said the Chevalier, 'you may drive there with me. To-morrow you must leave it for good and all.'
"On the way neither of them spoke. When they came to the house in the Rue St. Honoré Vertua rang at the door, and a little old woman opened, and cried, when she saw him, 'Oh, saviour of the world, is it you at last, signor? Angela has been nearly dead with anxiety about you.'
"'Hush!' said Vertua. 'Heaven grant that Angela has not heard the unlucky bell. I don't want her to know that I have come.' He took the candle-holder from the amazed old woman's hand, and lighted the Chevalier up the staircase to the salon.
"'I am ready for everything,' said Vertua. 'You detest me and despise me. You ruin me for the gratification of yourself and others. But you do not know me. I will tell you, then, that I was once a gambler like yourself; that capricious fortune was as kind to me as to you; that I travelled over the half of Europe, stopping wherever high play and the expectation of large winnings attracted me to remain; that the gold in the banque which I kept was heaped up as mountain high as in your own. I had a devoted and beautiful wife, whom I neglected, who was miserable in the midst of the most marvellous wealth. It happened once, in Genoa, when I had started my banque there, that a young Roman lost all his great fortune to me. As I begged of you to-day, he begged of me that I would lend him as much money as would, at all events, take him to Rome. I refused, with scornful laughter, and in his despair he thrust his stiletto deep into my breast. The surgeons managed to cure me with difficulty, and my illness was long and painful. My wife nursed me, comforted me, supported me when I would have given in with the pain. And with returning health there dawned within me, and grew stronger and stronger, a feeling which I had never known before. The gambler is a stranger to all the ordinary emotions of humanity, so that till then I had no knowledge of love, and the faithful devotion of a wife. The debt which my ungrateful heart owed to my wife burned in the depths of my soul, as well as the sense of the wickedness of the occupation to which I had sacrificed her. Like torturing spirits of vengeance appeared to me all those whose happiness, whose very existence, I had ruined, reproaching me, in hoarse and hollow voices, with the guilt and crime of whichIhad planted the germs. None but my wife could dispel the nameless sorrow, the terror, which then took possession of me. I made a solemn vow that I would never touch a card again. I tore myself away. I burst the bonds which had held me. I withstood the enticements of my croupiers, who could not get on when my luck was gone from the enterprise. I had bought a small country house near Rome, and there I fled with my wife as soon as I had recovered. Alas! for only one single year was it that I was vouchsafed a peace, a happiness, a contentment, such as I had never dreamt of. My wife bore me a daughter, and died a few weeks afterwards. I was in despair. I accused heaven, and then turned round and cursed myself and my sinful career, punished in this way by the eternal power, by taking my wife from me, who saved me from destruction--the only creature on earth who gave me comfort and hope. Like the criminal whom the dreadfulness of solitude terrifies, I fled from my country place to Paris. Angela blossomed up, the lovely counterpart of her mother. My whole heart hung upon her. For her sake I made it my business not only to keep a considerable fortune together, but to increase it. It is true that I lent money at high rates of interest. But it is a shameful calumny when I am accused of being a fraudulent usurer. Who are my accusers? Light-minded creatures, who torture and tease me till I lend them money, which they waste and squander as if it were of no value, and then are furious when I get it back from them with infallible strictness--the money which is not mine but my daughter's, whose steward I consider myself to be. Not long ago I rescued a young man from ruin and disgrace by lending him a considerable sum. I knew he was very poor, and I said nothing about repayment till I knew he had succeeded to a fortune. Then I asked him to pay me. Would you credit it, Chevalier, this light-minded scoundrel, who was indebted to me for his very existence, wanted to deny his liability, and, when the law obliged him to pay me, he called me a vile skinflint. I could tell you of plenty similar cases, which have made me hard and unfeeling when I have been met with ingratitude and baseness. More than that, I could tell you of many bitter tears which I have wiped away, of many a prayer which has gone up to heaven for me and my Angela; but you would look upon that as boasting, and besides, as you are a gambler, you would care nothing about it. I hoped and believed that the eternal power was appeased. All delusion, for Satan was freely empowered to blind and deceive me in a more terrible manner than ever. I heard of your luck, Chevalier. Every day I was told of this one and the other having beggared himself at your banque. Then it came to me that I was destined to pit my luck, which had never failed me, against yours--that I was destined to put an end to your career. And this idea, which nothing but madness of the most extraordinary kind could have suggested to me, left me no further peace or rest. Thus I came to your banque. Thus my terrible folly did not leave me until my fortune--no, my Angela's fortune--was all yours. But you will let my daughter take her clothes away with her, will you not?'
"'I have nothing to do with your daughter's clothes,' answered the Chevalier; 'and you may take away the beds and the ordinary household things for cooking and so forth. What do I care for rubbish of that sort? But take care that nothing of any value of that which is now my property goes away amongst them.'
"Old Vertua stared speechlessly at the Chevalier for a few seconds, then a stream of tears burst from his eyes. Like a man annihilated, all sorrow and despair, he sank down before the Chevalier with hands uplifted.
"'Have you any human feeling left in your heart?' he cried. 'Have some mercy! Remember it is not me whom you are dashing into ruin and misery, but my unoffending angel child--my Angela! Oh, have mercy upon her! Lend her the twentieth part of the fortune you have robbed her of. I know you will allow yourself to be implored. Oh! Angela, my daughter!'
"And the old man moaned, sobbed, and called out the name of his child in heart-breaking tones.
"'I really don't think I can stand much more of this stage business of yours,' the Chevalier said indifferently, and in a bored manner. But the door opened, and a girl in a white night dress, with her hair undone, and death in her face, rushed up to old Vertua, raised him, took him in her arms, and cried, 'Oh, father, I have heard it all--I know it all! Have you lost everything?--everything? You have still your Angela. What would be the use of money if you had not Angela to take care of you. Oh, father! don't humiliate yourself more before this despicable, inhuman creature. It is not we, it is he who is poor and miserable in all his despicable riches, for he stands there in the most gruesome, comfortless loneliness. There is not one loving heart in the wide world to cling to his breast, to open to him when he is like to despair of life--of himself. Come, father, away from this house with me; let us go as quickly as we can, that the horrible creature may not gloat over our sorrow.'
"Vertua sank half senseless into a chair, whilst Angela knelt down before him, took his hands, kissed them and stroked them, and told over, with childlike prolixity, all the accomplishments and acquirements which she possessed, with which she would be able to support him comfortably, imploring him with the warmest tears to have no fear, inasmuch as life would, for the first time in her experience, begin to possess a real value and delightsomeness for her when--not for the enjoying of it, but for her father--she should stitch, sew, sing, play the guitar.
"What obdurate sinner could have remained indifferent at the sight of Angela beaming in the fulness of her heavenly beauty, comforting her old father with sweet, delicious words, the deepest affection, and the most childlike purity and goodness streaming from the depths of her heart?
"Things were very different with the Chevalier. An entire pandemonium of torture and pangs of conscience awoke within him. Angela seemed to him to be the punishing angel of God, before whose shining glory the cloud-shroud of sinful deception which had surrounded him vanished away, so that with terror he clearly saw himself in all his repulsive nakedness.
"And through the midst of those hell-flames, which were consuming and raging in his heart, there came piercing a heavenly, pure beam of radiance, whose light was the sweetest bliss and the very joy of heaven, though the brightness of this ray had the effect of rendering the inexpressible torture more terrible.
"The Chevalier had never known love before; and the instant he saw Angela he was seized by the most passionate affection for her, and, at the same time, with the destroying pain of complete hopelessness, for surely there could be no hope for one who had appeared to her in the light in which he had.
"He longed to say something, but his tongue seemed to be paralysed. At length he so far mastered himself as to say, stammering, and in a trembling voice, 'Signor Vertua, listen. I have not won anything from you--nothing of the kind. There is my strong box; take it, it is yours. Yes; and I have to pay you more than that. I am in your debt. Take it, take it!'
"'Oh, my girl!' cried Vertua. But Angela went up to the Chevalier, beamed a proud look upon him, and said, gravely and calmly, 'Learn, Chevalier, that there are higher things than money and possessions--things which you have no knowledge of--which, while filling our souls with the happiness of heaven, make us spurn your gifts with compassion and contempt. Keep the mammon upon which lies the curse which pursues you, heartless, accursed gambler.'
"'Yes!' cried the Chevalier wildly; 'cursed, cursed in verity may I be, if ever this hand of mine touches a card again. And if you repel me, Angela, it will be you who will bring inevitable destruction upon me. Oh, you don't understand me. You must think me mad; but you will know it all when I lie before you with my skull shivered into fragments. Angela, it is life or death with me. Adieu!'
"With this he dashed away in utter desperation. Vertua thoroughly understood him; he saw what had been passing in his heart, and tried to make the lovely Angela comprehend how certain eventualities might arise which would render it necessary to accept the Chevalier's offers. Angela was afraid to allow herself to understand her father; she did not think it would ever be possible to regard the Chevalier otherwise than with contempt; but that mysterious chain of events which often forms itself within the profundities of the human heart, without our cognisance, brought to pass that which seemed unimagined--undreamt of.
"The Chevalier felt as if suddenly awakened from a horrible dream. He saw himself standing on the brink of the abyss of hell, stretching his arms out in vain to the shining form of light which had appeared to him, not to save him, but to tell him of his damnation.
"To the surprise of all Paris his banque opened no more, and he himself was no more seen, so that the most marvellous tales concerning him became current, each of them a greater falsehood than the others. He avoided all society; his love took the form of the profoundest, most unconquerable melancholy. One day he met old Vertua and his daughter in one of the lonely, shady walks of the garden at Malmaison.
"Angela, who had believed she would never be able to look upon the Chevalier again but with horror and contempt, felt strangely moved when she saw him so pale and distressed, scarce able to lift his eyes to her in the excess of his reverence for her. She knew that, since that eventful night, he had given play up entirely, and completely altered his mode of life, and that she--she alone--was the cause of this. She had saved him from destruction; could anything flatter a woman more?
"When old Vertua had exchanged the ordinary civilities with him, she spoke to him in a tone of gentle pity, saying, 'What is the matter, Chevalier? You look ill and unhappy. You ought to go and consult a doctor.'
"We can understand that her words filled him with comfort and hope. He was a different man in a moment. He lifted his head, and managed to talk once more in the manner which, when it welled from his very heart in former days, used to attract and endear him to all who knew him. Vertua reminded him that he had not come to take possession of the house he had won.
"'Very well, I will come,' he answered, with an inspiration breaking upon him. 'I will come to-morrow; but we must discuss all the conditions at proper length and leisure, even if it should take months.'
"'So be it, Chevalier,' said Vertua, with a smile. 'Perhaps we may come to discuss matters which we do not quite see into at present.'
"The Chevalier, inwardly comforted, resumed all the charm of manner and all the delightful qualities which had distinguished him before he was carried away by his devouring passion. His visits at Vertua's became more and more frequent, and Angela grew more and more disposed towards the man whose guardian angel she had been, till at last she believed she loved him with all her heart, and promised him her hand, to the great joy of old Vertua, who saw in this the settlement of his losses.
"One day Angela, now the happy betrothed of the Chevalier Menars, was sitting at a window, lost in all the sweet dreams and happy fancies which young ladies in her position are believed to be wont to entertain, when a regiment of Jaegers came marching along, with trumpets sounding bravely, on their way to join in the Spanish campaign. She was looking with pitiful sympathy at the men thus going to face death in this war, when a very young officer, who was reining his horse quickly to one side, looked up at her, and she fell back fainting in her seat.
"Alas! This young Jaeger, marching off to face death in the field, was no other than young Duvernet, the son of a neighbour, with whom she had grown up, who had been nearly daily in the house, and had only kept out of the way since the Chevalier had made his appearance. In the look of bitter reproach which the lad cast at her--and the bitterness of death itself was in it--she now, for the first time, read not only how unspeakably he loved her, but how boundlessly she loved him, without having been aware, whilst dazzled by the Chevalier's brilliance. Now. for the first time, she understood Duvernet's anxious sighs?--his silent, unassuming, unobtrusive attentions; now, and now only, she read her own embarrassed heart--what moved her disquiet breast when Duvernet came, when she heard his voice.
"'Too late! he is lost to me!' cried the voice in her heart. She had the resolution to beat down and conquer the hopeless pain which would have torn her heart; and just because she had this resolution she was successful.
"The Chevalier was too observant not to see that something had been occurring to disturb her; but, tenderly enough, he refrained from trying to unriddle a mystery which she thought herself bound to conceal from him. He contented himself, by way of clearing anything hostile out of the path, with hastening on the wedding. The arrangements connected with it he ordered with such admirable consideration and such delicate tact, that from his very care in this respect for her state of mind, she could not but form a higher opinion of his amiability than even before.
"His conduct to her was marked with such observance of the most trifling of her wishes, with the sincere courtesy which springs from the truest and purest affection, that the remembrance of Duvernet naturally faded more and more from her memory. So that the first cloud-shadow which fell upon the brightness of their life was the illness and death of old Vertua.
"Since the night when he had lost all he possessed to the Chevalier, he had never touched a card. But in the closing moments of his life all his faculties seemed to be engrossed with the game. Whilst the priest, who had come to administer the consolations of the Church to him on his departure from this life, spoke to him of spiritual things, he lay with closed eyes, murmuring between his teeth, 'Perd!--Gagne,' and making, with hands quivering in the spasms of death, the motions of dealing and playing out cards. Angela and the Chevalier, bending over him, called him by the tenderest names. He did not seem to hear them, or to know they were there. With a faint sigh of 'Gagne!' he gave up the ghost.
"In her deep sorrow, Angela could not help an eery shudder at the manner of his departure. The remembrance of that night, when she had first seen the Chevalier as the most hardened reprobate of a gambler, came vividly to her mind, and the thought came into her soul that he might some day throw off his angel's mask and, jeering at her in his pristine devilishness, begin his old life again.
"This fearful presentiment was to come but too true.
"Deeply shocked as the Chevalier was at the notion of old Francesco Vertua's having gone into the next world heedless of the consolations of the Church, and unable to leave off thinking of the former sinful life, still, somehow--he could not tell why--it brought the memory of the game back to his mind again, so that every night in his dreams he was presiding at the banque once more, heaping up fresh treasures.
"Since, Angela, impressed by the remembrance how her husband had appeared to her at first, found it impossible to maintain the trustful affection of her earlier wedded days, mistrust, at the same time, came into his soul of her, and he attributed her embarrassment to that secret which at once disturbed her peace, and remained unrevealed to him. This suspicion produced in him misery and annoyance, which he expressed in utterances which pained Angela. By a natural psychical reflex action, the remembrance of the unfortunate Duvernet revived in her mind, and with it the miserable sense that the love which had blossomed forth in her young heart was lost and bidden adieu to for ever. The discord grew greater and greater, till it reached such a pitch that the Chevalier came to the conclusion that the life of retirement which he was leading was a complete mistake, and longed with all his heart to be out into the world again.
"In fact, his evil star began to get into the ascendant. And that which inward dissatisfaction commenced, was completed by a wicked fellow who had formerly been a croupier at his banque, and who, by various crafty speeches, brought matters to such a point that the Chevalier came to consider his present mode of existence childish and ridiculous, and could not comprehend how, for the sake of a woman, he should be abandoning a life which appeared to him the only one worth living.
"So very soon the Chevalier's banque, with its heaps of gold, was going on again more brilliantly than ever. His luck had not forsaken him; victim after victim fell a prey, and money was amassed. But Angela's happiness was a thing of the past--destroyed, in a terrible fashion, like a brief, bright dream. The Chevalier treated her with indifference--more than that, with contempt. Often she did not see him for weeks and months. An old house-steward looked after the household matters; the servants were changed according to the Chevalier's caprice; so that Angela, a stranger in her own home, found no comfort anywhere. Often, in sleepless nights, when she heard the Chevalier's carriage draw up at the door, the heavy money-chest brought up the stairs, and he himself come up, cursing and swearing in monosyllables, and shut the door of his distant room with a bang, a torrent of tears would burst from her eyes, and in the deepest, most heartbreaking tones of misery, she would call a hundred times on the name Duvernet, and implore the Eternal Power to make an end of her wretched existence.
"One night a young gentleman of good family, after losing all he possessed at the Chevalier's banque, sent a bullet through his head in the gaming-house--and indeed in the very room where the banque was established--so that the blood and brains besprinkled the players, who scattered out of the way in alarm. The only person unaffected by this was the Chevalier, who, when every one was about to leave the room, asked whether it was according to rule and custom to leave the game because a young fool had chosen to commit an absurdity, before the regular time for closing.
"This incident excited much comment. The most experienced, most hardened gamblers were indignant at the Chevalier's unexampled behaviour. Every one took part against him. The police ordered his banque to be closed. He was accused of unfair play; and his extraordinary luck spoke for the truth of this accusation. He was unable to clear himself, and the fine inflicted on him ran away with a considerable slice of his fortune. Finding himself robbed of his good name, and despised by all, he betook himself back to the arms of the wife whom he had ill-treated, who gladly welcomed him in his repentance. The recollection that her father, too, had renounced the miserable life of a gambler, allowed a gleam of hope to dawn upon her mind that perhaps, as the Chevalier was advancing somewhat in years, his alteration of life might be lasting.
"He left Paris with her, and they went to Genoa, her birth-place. Here, at first, he lived a sedate life; but it was impossible to re-establish the old, peaceful, domestic existence with Angola which his evil angel had destroyed. Very soon his inward restlessness and disquiet awoke and drove him out, away from his house, in unsettled restlessness. His ill-repute had followed him from Paris. He dared not establish a banque, though he felt impelled to do so with the most irresistible force.
"About this time a French Colonel, obliged, by serious wounds, to retire from active service, was keeping the most important banque in Genoa. The Chevalier went to this banque, with envy and deep hatred in his heart, expecting his usual luck to stand by him soon, so that he might be the ruin of this rival. The Colonel hailed the Chevalier with a merry humour (not at other times characteristic of him), saying that now, when the Chevalier de Menars had appeared in the field, the game was worth winning at last, since there was something in the nature of a real contest to give some interest to the issues.
"And, in fact, during the first few deals, the cards fell to the Chevalier with just his old luck. But when, trusting to his invincible fortune, he at last called out: 'Va, Banque!' he lost a very considerable sum of money at one stroke.
"The Colonel was, ordinarily, completely cool and impassive, whether lucky or unlucky; but, this time, he drew in his winnings with the liveliest marks of the utmost delight.
"From that moment luck turned away from the Chevalier, utterly and completely. He played every night, and lost every night, till he had nothing left but two or three thousand ducats, in paper.
"He had been on foot all day, converting this paper into cash, and only went home to his house late in the evening. When night was coming on, he was going out with his last gold coins in his pocket, when Angela came to him (suspecting the truth, no doubt), threw herself at his feet with a stream of tears, imploring him, by the Virgin and all the saints, to abandon his evil courses, and not leave her in need and poverty.
"The Chevalier raised her, pressed her, with painful fervour, to his heart, and said, in a hollow voice: 'Angela!--my sweet, beloved Angela!--there is no help for it. I must do it. I cannot help it. But to-morrow--to-morrow, all your cares will be over. For, by the Eternal Destiny which is above us, I swear that I play this night for the very last time. Do not distress yourself, my darling child. Go to sleep! Dream of happy days!--of a better life which is coming speedily. That will bring me luck.'
"He kissed her, and ran off, not to be stopped.
"In two deals he had lost everything--all that he possessed. He remained standing motionless near the Colonel, staring, in a dazed manner, at the gaming table.
"'Won't you go on, Chevalier?' asked the Colonel, shuffling the cards for the next deal.
"'I have lost my all,' the Chevalier answered, powerfully constraining himself to be calm.
"'Do you mean to say you have nothing left?' the Colonel asked at the next deal.
"'I am a beggar,' the Chevalier cried, in a voice quivering with fury and pain, as he continued to stare at the gaming table. He did not notice that those who were staking were getting more and more the better of the banquier.
"The Colonel calmly continued the game.
"As he shuffled the cards for the third deal, he said to the Chevalier (without looking on him), 'You have a beautiful wife, you know!'
"'What do you mean?' cried the Chevalier angrily. The Colonel turned away a little without answering him.
"'Ten thousand ducats--or Angela!' he said, half averting his face, as the cards were being cut.
"'You are out of your senses!' cried the Chevalier, who had, however, now regained his composure a good deal, and began to observe that the Colonel was losing at every deal.
"'Twenty thousand ducats, or Angela!' the Colonel said almost in a whisper, as he paused for a moment during the shuffling of the cards. The Chevalier said not a word. The Colonel played again, and nearly all the cards were in favour of the players--against him.
"'Done!' the Chevalier whispered in the Colonel's ear when the next deal began; and he threw the Queen on the table.
"The Queen lost.
"The Chevalier drew back, grinding his teeth, and leaned at the window with despair and death in his white face.
"The game ended, and, with a jeering 'Well! what next?' the Colonel came up to the Chevalier.
"'Oh, God!' cried the Chevalier, quite beside himself. 'You have made me a beggar, but you must be a madman if you think you have won my wife! Are we in the West Indies? Is my wife a slave--a chattel in her husband's power, so that he can sell her, or gamble her away at faro? It is true, of course, that you would have had to pay me twenty thousand ducats if the Queen had won, so that I have lost the right to make any objection if my wife chooses to leave me and go away with you. Come home with me, and despair when my wife repulses with horror the man whom she would have to follow as a dishonoured mistress.'
"'Despair yourself, Chevalier!' said the Colonel with a scornful laugh, 'when Angela turns from you with horror---from you, the miserable wretch who has brought her to beggary--and throws herself into my arms with eager rapture; despair yourself, when you find that the Church's benediction unites us--that fate crowns our most eager desires. You say I must be mad!--Ha, ha! All I wanted was to gain power of veto. I knew of a certainty that your wife belonged to me. Ho, ho, Chevalier! Let me tell you that your wife loves me--me--unutterably, to my certain knowledge. Let me tell you that I am that Duvernet, the neighbour's son, brought up with Angela, united to her in the warmest affection, which you, with your devilish artifices, dispelled. Alas! it was not till I had to depart on field service that Angela knew what I was to her. I know the whole matter. It was too late then. But the dark spirit told me that I should succeed in ruining you at play--that was why I devoted myself to it and followed you to Genoa. And I have done it!--come now to your wife!'
"The Chevalier stood like one annihilated, stricken by a thousand burning lightnings. The mystery so long sealed to him was explained. Now, for the first time, he saw the full extent of the misfortunes which he had brought upon poor Angela.
"'My wife shall make her decision,' he said in a hollow tone, and followed the Colonel, who stormed away.
"When they came to the house, and the Colonel seized the handle of Angela's door, the Chevalier thrust him back, saying, 'My wife is in a sweet sleep; would you awaken her?'
"'Ha!' said the Colonel. 'Has Angela ever been in a sweet sleep since you brought nameless misery upon her?'
"He was about to enter the room, but the Chevalier prostrated himself at his feet, and cried, in utter despair, 'Have some mercy! You have made me a beggar! Leave me my wife!'
"'So lay old Vertua atyourfeet, unfeeling monster that you were, and could not move your stony heart. Therefore, may the vengeance of Heaven be upon you!'
"So saying, the Colonel again turned towards Angela's room.
"The Chevalier sprang to the door, burst it open, dashed up to the bed where his wife was lying, drew the curtains aside, cried 'Angela! Angela!'--bent over her--took her hand--shuddered like one convulsed in the death agony, and cried out in a terrible voice--
"'See here! What you have won from me is my wife's corpse!'
"The Colonel hurried to the bedside in terror. There was no trace of life. Angela was dead.
"The Colonel raised his clenched hands to heaven, and rushed away with a hollow cry. He was no more seen."
It was thus that the stranger finished his narrative, and having done so, he went quickly away, before the Baron, much moved by it, was able to utter any word.
A day or two afterwards the stranger was found insensible in his room, stricken by apoplexy. He was speechless till his death, which happened in a few hours. His papers showed that, though he was known by the name of Baudasson, he really was none other than the unfortunate Chevalier Menars.
The Baron recognized the warning of Heaven which had brought the Chevalier Menars to him just when he was nearing the abyss, and he took a solemn vow that he would resist all the temptations of the deceptive Gambler's Fortune. Hitherto he has kept his vow.