“The chips, Koukou,” demanded the Hetman, “We are not here to amuse ourselves.”

The Zwinglian cook placed a box of many-colored chips in front of him.  Count Bielowsky set about counting them and arranging them in little piles with infinite care.

“The white are worth a louis,” he explained to me.  “The red, a hundred francs.  The yellow, five hundred.  The green, a thousand.  Oh, it’s the devil of a game that we play here.  You will see.”

“I open with ten thousand,” said the Zwinglian cook.

“Twelve thousand,” said the Hetman.

“Thirteen,” said Sydya with a slow smile, as she seated herself on the count’s knee and began to arrange her chips lovingly in little piles.

“Fourteen,” I said.

“Fifteen,” said the sharp voice of Rosita, the old manicure.

“Seventeen,” proclaimed the Hetman.

“Twenty thousand,” the cook broke in.

He hammered on the table and, casting a defiant look at us, repeated: 

“I take it at twenty thousand.”

The Hetman made an impatient gesture.

“That devil, Koukou!  You can’t do anything against the beast.  You will have to play carefully, Lieutenant.”

Koukou had taken his place at the end of the table.  He threw down the cards with an air which abashed me.

“I told you so; the way it was at Anna Deslions’,” the Hetman murmured proudly.

“Make your bets, gentlemen,” yelped the Negro.  “Make your bets.”

“Wait, you beast,” called Bielowsky.  “Don’t you see that the glasses are empty?  Here, Cacambo.”

The goblets were filled immediately by the jolly masseur.

“Cut,” said Koukou, addressing Sydya, the beautiful Targa who sat at his right.

The girl cut, like one who knows superstitions, with her left hand.  But it must be said that her right was busy lifting a cup to her lips.  I watched the curve of her beautiful throat.

“My deal,” said Koukou.

We were thus arranged:  at the left, the Hetman, Aguida, whose waist he had encircled with the most aristocratic freedom, Cacambo, a Tuareg woman, then two veiled Negroes who were watching the game intently.  At the right, Sydya, myself, the old manicure, Rosita, Barouf, the barber, another woman and two white Tuareg, grave and attentive, exactly opposite those on the left.

“Give me one,” said the Hetman.

Sydya made a negative gesture.

Koukou drew, passed a four-spot to the Hetman, gave himself a five.

“Eight,” announced Bielowsky.

“Six,” said pretty Sydya.

“Seven,” broke in Koukou.  “One card makes up for another,” he added coldly.

“I double,” said the Hetman.

Cacambo and Aguida followed his example.  On our side, we were more careful.  The manicure especially would not risk more than twenty francs at a time.

“I demand that the cards be evened up,” said Koukou imperturbably.