“Come, my little man, take ’em up,” cried Fanny Beaupre, signing to Oscar to rake in the two hundred francs which Nathan and Florine had punted.

The actress did not spare taunts or jests on those who lost.  She enlivened the game with jokes which Oscar thought singular; but reflection was stifled by joy; for the first two throws produced a gain of two thousand francs.  Oscar then thought of feigning illness and making his escape, leaving his partner behind him; but “honor” kept him there.  Three more turns and the gains were lost.  Oscar felt a cold sweat running down his back, and he was sobered completely.

The next two throws carried off the thousand francs of their mutual stake.  Oscar was consumed with thirst, and drank three glasses of iced punch one after the other.  The actress now led him into the bed-chamber, where the rest of the company were playing, talking frivolities with an easy air.  But by this time the sense of his wrong-doing overcame him; the figure of Desroches appeared to him like a vision.  He turned aside to a dark corner and sat down, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and wept.  Florentine noticed the attitude of true grief, which, because it is sincere, is certain to strike the eye of one who acts.  She ran to him, took the handkerchief from his hand, and saw his tears; then she led him into a boudoir alone.

“What is it, my child?” she said.

At the tone and accent of that voice Oscar recognized a motherly kindness which is often found in women of her kind, and he answered openly:—­

“I have lost five hundred francs which my employer gave me to obtain a document to-morrow morning; there’s nothing for me but to fling myself into the river; I am dishonored.”

“How silly you are!” she said.  “Stay where you are; I’ll get you a thousand francs and you can win back what you’ve lost; but don’t risk more than five hundred, so that you may be sure of your master’s money.  Georges plays a fine game at ecarte; bet on him.”

Oscar, frightened by his position, accepted the offer of the mistress of the house.

“Ah!” he thought, “it is only women of rank who are capable of such kindness.  Beautiful, noble, rich! how lucky Georges is!”

He received the thousand francs from Florentine and returned to bet on his hoaxer.  Georges had just passed for the fourth time when Oscar sat down beside him.  The other players saw with satisfaction the arrival of a new better; for all, with the instinct of gamblers, took the side of Giroudeau, the old officer of the Empire.

“Messieurs,” said Georges, “you’ll be punished for deserting me; I feel in the vein.  Come, Oscar, we’ll make an end of them!”