“I will stake a few pieces presently on the green cloth,” replied Dalrymple, carelessly; “but, first of all, I want to initiate my young friend here.  As to double ecarte, Monsieur de Simoncourt, I need hardly tell you, as a man of the world, that I never play it with strangers.”

De Simoncourt smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Quite right,” said he.  “I believe that here everything is really de bonne foi; but where there are cards there will always be danger.  For my part, I always shuffle the pack after my adversary!”

With this he strolled off again, and I took a vacant chair at the long table, next to a lady, who made way for me with the most gracious smile imaginable.  Only the players sat; so Dalrymple stood behind me and looked on.  It was a green board, somewhat larger than an ordinary billiard-table, with mysterious boundaries traced here and there in yellow and red, and a cabalistic table of figures towards each end.  A couple of well-dressed men sat in the centre; one to deal out the cards, and the other to pay and receive the money.  The one who had the management of the cash wore a superb diamond ring, and a red and green ribbon at his button-hole.  Dalrymple informed me in a whisper that this noble seigneur was Madame de Ste. Amaranthe’s brother.

As for the players, they all looked serious and polite enough, as ladies and gentlemen should, at their amusement.  Some had pieces of card, which they pricked occasionally with a pin, according to the progress of the game.  Some had little piles of silver, or sealed rouleaux, lying beside them.  As for myself, I took out Dalrymple’s pocket-book, and laid it beside me, as if I were an experienced player and meant to break the bank.  For a few minutes he stood by, and then, having given me some idea of the leading principles of the game, wandered away to observe the other players.

Left to myself, I played on—­timidly at first; soon with more confidence; and, of course, with the novice’s invariable good-fortune.  My amiable neighbor drew me presently into conversation.  She had a theory of chances relating to averages of color, and based upon a bewildering calculation of all the black and red cards in the pack, which she was so kind as to explain to me.  I could not understand a word of it, but politeness compelled me to listen.  Politeness also compelled me to follow her advice when she was so obliging as to offer it, and I lost, as a matter of course.  From this moment my good-luck deserted me.

“Courage, Monsieur,” said my amiable neighbour; “you have only to play long enough, and you are sure to win.”

In the meantime, I kept following Dalrymple with my eyes, for there was something in his manner that filled me with vague uneasiness.  Sometimes he drew near the table and threw down a Napoleon, but without heeding the game, or caring whether he won or lost.  He was always looking to the door, or wandering restlessly from table to table.  Watching him thus, I thought how haggard he looked, and what deep channels were furrowed in his brow since that day when we lay together on the autumnal grass under the trees in the forest of St. Germain.