The Count's Millions [32]
And is not gaming a species of idolatry, symbolized by cards, and which has its images, its fetishes, its miracles, its fanatics, and its martyrs?
Occasionally, above the accompaniment of whispers, rose the strange and incoherent exclamations of the players: "Here are twenty louis! I take it--I pass! The play is made! Banco!"
"What a strange gathering!" thought Pascal Ferailleur. "What singular people!" And he turned his attention to the mistress of the house, as if he hoped to decipher the solution of the enigma on her face.
But Madame Lia d'Argeles defied all analysis. She was one of those women whose uncertain age varies according to their mood, between the thirties and the fifties; one who did not look over thirty in the evening, but who would have been charged with being more than fifty the next morning. In her youth she must have been very beautiful, and she was still good-looking, though she had grown somewhat stout, and her face had become a trifle heavy, thus marring the symmetry of her very delicate features. A perfect blonde, she had eyes of so clear a blue that they seemed almost faded. The whiteness of her skin was so unnatural that it almost startled one. It was the dull, lifeless white which suggests an excessive use of cosmetics and rice powder, and long baths, late hours, and sleep at day-time, in a darkened room. Her face was utterly devoid of expression. One might have fancied that its muscles had become relaxed after terrible efforts to feign or to conceal some violent emotions; and there was something melancholy, almost terrifying in the eternal, and perhaps involuntary smile, which curved her lips. She wore a dress of black velvet, with slashed sleeves and bodice, a new design of the famous man- milliner, Van Klopen.
Pascal was engaged in these observations when M. de Coralth, having made his round, came and sat down on the sofa beside him. "Well, what do you think of it?" he inquired.
"Upon my word!" replied the young advocate, "I am infinitely obliged to you for inviting me to accompany you here. I am intensely amused."
"Good! My philosopher is captivated."
"Not captivated, but interested, I confess." Then, in the tone of good-humor which 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,
Occasionally, above the accompaniment of whispers, rose the strange and incoherent exclamations of the players: "Here are twenty louis! I take it--I pass! The play is made! Banco!"
"What a strange gathering!" thought Pascal Ferailleur. "What singular people!" And he turned his attention to the mistress of the house, as if he hoped to decipher the solution of the enigma on her face.
But Madame Lia d'Argeles defied all analysis. She was one of those women whose uncertain age varies according to their mood, between the thirties and the fifties; one who did not look over thirty in the evening, but who would have been charged with being more than fifty the next morning. In her youth she must have been very beautiful, and she was still good-looking, though she had grown somewhat stout, and her face had become a trifle heavy, thus marring the symmetry of her very delicate features. A perfect blonde, she had eyes of so clear a blue that they seemed almost faded. The whiteness of her skin was so unnatural that it almost startled one. It was the dull, lifeless white which suggests an excessive use of cosmetics and rice powder, and long baths, late hours, and sleep at day-time, in a darkened room. Her face was utterly devoid of expression. One might have fancied that its muscles had become relaxed after terrible efforts to feign or to conceal some violent emotions; and there was something melancholy, almost terrifying in the eternal, and perhaps involuntary smile, which curved her lips. She wore a dress of black velvet, with slashed sleeves and bodice, a new design of the famous man- milliner, Van Klopen.
Pascal was engaged in these observations when M. de Coralth, having made his round, came and sat down on the sofa beside him. "Well, what do you think of it?" he inquired.
"Upon my word!" replied the young advocate, "I am infinitely obliged to you for inviting me to accompany you here. I am intensely amused."
"Good! My philosopher is captivated."
"Not captivated, but interested, I confess." Then, in the tone of good-humor which 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,