“Which is the winner?” I asked, eagerly.  “Which is the winner?”

The gentleman who had replied to me before looked round with a smile of contemptuous wonder.

“Why, Monsieur de Caylus, of course,” said he.  “Did you not see him play the king?”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, somewhat nettled; “but, as I said before, I do not understand the game.”

“Eh bien! the Englishman is counting out his money.”

What a changed scene it was!  The circle of intent faces broken and shifting—­the silence succeeded by a hundred conversations—­De Caylus leaning back, sipping his wine and chatting over his shoulder—­the cards pushed aside, and Dalrymple gravely sorting out little shining columns of Napoleons, and rolls of crisp bank paper!  Having ranged all these before him in a row, he took out his check-book, filled in a page, tore it out and laid it with the rest.  Then, replacing the book in his breast-pocket, he pushed back his chair, and, looking up for the first time since the close of the game, said aloud:—­

“Monsieur le Vicomte de Caylus, I have this evening had the honor of losing the sum of twelve thousand francs to you; will you do me the favor to count this money?”

M. de Caylus bowed, emptied his glass, and languidly touching each little column with one dainty finger, told over his winnings as though they were scarcely worth even that amount of trouble.

“Six rouleaux of four hundred each,” said he, “making two thousand four hundred—­six notes of five hundred each, making three thousand—­and an order upon Rothschild for six thousand six hundred; in all, twelve thousand.  Thanks, Monsieur ...  Monsieur ... forgive me for not remembering your name.”

Dalrymple looked up with a dangerous light in his eyes, and took no notice of the apology.

“It appears to me, Monsieur le Vicomte Caylus,” said he, giving the other his full title and speaking with singular distinctness, “that you hold the king very often at ecarte.”

De Caylus looked up with every vein on his forehead suddenly swollen and throbbing.

“Monsieur!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.

“Especially when you deal,” added Dalrymple, smoothing his moustache with utter sang-froid, and keeping his eyes still riveted upon his adversary.

With an inarticulate cry like the cry of a wild beast, De Caylus sprung at him, foaming with rage, and was instantly flung back against the wall, dragging with him not only the table-cloth, but all the wine, money, and cards upon it.

“I will have blood for this!” he shrieked, struggling with those who rushed in between.  “I will have blood!  Blood!  Blood!”

Stained and streaming with red wine, he looked, in his ghastly rage, as if he was already bathed in the blood he thirsted for.

Dalrymple drew himself to his full height, and stood looking on with folded arms and a cold smile.