Mais il joue! —­ how happy a thought! —­ but his Grace had always an excellent memory.  He had dipped in the “Diable” of Abbe Gualtier.  Therein it is said “que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un jeu d’ecarte.”

But the chances —­ the chances!  True —­ desperate:  but scarcely more desperate than the Duc.  Besides, was he not in the secret? —­ had he not skimmed over Pere Le Brun? —­ was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un?  “Si je perds,” said he, “je serai deux fois perdu —­ I shall be doubly dammed —­ voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans —­ que les cartes soient preparees!”

His Grace was all care, all attention —­ his Majesty all confidence.  A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles.  His Grace thought of his game.  His Majesty did not think; he shuffled.  The Duc cut.

The cards were dealt.  The trump is turned —­ it is —­ it is —­ the king!  No —­ it was the queen.  His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments.  De L’Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.

They play.  The Duc counts.  The hand is out.  His Majesty counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine.  The Duc slips a card.

“C’est a vous a faire,” said his Majesty, cutting.  His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the table en presentant le Roi.

His Majesty looked chagrined.

Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “que s’il n’eut ete De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’etre le Diable.”

~~~ End of Text ~~~

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THE OBLONG BOX.

SOME years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C, to the city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain Hardy.  We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June), weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to arrange some matters in my state-room.

I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a more than usual number of ladies.  On the list were several of my acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained feelings of warm friendship.  He had been with me a fellow-student at C —­ University, where we were very much together.  He had the ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm.  To these qualities he united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human bosom.

I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and, upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters —­ his own.  The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths, one above the other.  These berths, to be sure, were so exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one person; still, I could not comprehend why