a silver rake with a long ebony handle, sweep into a large inclosure near him the scattered sums.  This inclosure was called the bank, and the mysterious ceremony in which these persons were assisting was the celebrated game of rouge-et-noir. A deep silence was strictly observed by those who immediately surrounded the table; no voice was heard save that of the little, short, stout dealer, when, without an expression of the least interest, he seemed mechanically to announce the fate of the different colors.  No other sound was heard save the jingle of the dollars and napoleons, and the ominous rake of the tall, thin banker.  The countenances of those who were hazarding their money were grave and gloomy their eyes were fixed, their brows contracted, and their lips projected; and yet there was an evident effort visible to show that they were both easy and unconcerned.  Each player held in his hand a small piece of pasteboard, on which, with a steel pricker, he marked the run of the cards, in order, from his observations, to regulate his own play:  the rouge-et-noir player imagines that chance is not capricious.  Those who were not interested in the game promenaded in two lines within the tables; or, seated in recesses between the pillars, formed small parties for conversation.

As Vivian and the baron entered, Lady Madeleine Trevor, leaning on the arm of an elderly man, left the room; but as she was in earnest conversation, she did not observe them.

“I suppose we must throw away a dollar or two, Grey!” said the baron, as he walked up to the table.

“My dear De Konigstein—­one pinch—­one pinch!”

“Ah! marquis, what fortune to-night?”

“Bad—­bad!  I have lost my napoleon:  I never risk further.  There’s that cursed crusty old De Trumpetson, persisting, as usual, in his run of bad luck, because he will never give in.  Trust me, my dear De Konigstein, it’ll end in his ruin; and then, if there’s a sale of his effects, I shall perhaps get the snuff-box—­a-a-h!”

“Come, Grey; shall I throw down a couple of napoleons on joint account?  I don’t care much for play myself; but I suppose at Ems we must make up our minds to lose a few louis.  Here! now for the red—­joint account, mind!”

“Done.”

“There’s the archduke!  Let us go and make our bow; we needn’t stick at the table as if our whole soul were staked with our crown pieces—­we’ll make our bow, and then return in time to know our fate.”  So saying, the gentlemen walked up to the top of the room.

“Why, Grey!—­surely no—­it cannot be—­and yet it is.  De Boeffleurs, how d’ye do?” said the baron, with a face beaming with joy, and a hearty shake of the hand.  “My dear, dear fellow, how the devil did you manage to get off so soon?  I thought you were not to be here for a fortnight:  we only arrived ourselves to-day.”

“Yes—­but I’ve made an arrangement which I did not anticipate; and so I posted after you immediately.  Whom do you think I have brought with me?”