“Yes,” I replied, “if you will tell me upon whom it is drawn, and provided that it does not exceed the value of the bank.”

After a rapid glance at the pile of gold before me, he said, “The bill is not for so large a sum as your bank, and it is payable at sight by Zappata, of Turin.”

I agreed, he cut, and put his money on an ace, the two friends going half shares.  I drew and drew and drew, but no ace appeared.  I had only a dozen cards left.

“Sir,” said I, calmly to the punter, “you can draw back if you like.”

“No, go on.”

Four cards more, and still no ace; I had only eight cards left.

“My lord,” said I, “it’s two to one that I do not hold the ace, I repeat you can draw back.”

“No, no, you are too generous, go on.”

I continued dealing, and won; I put the bill of exchange in my pocket without looking at it.  The Englishmen shook me by the hand and went off laughing.  I was enjoying the effect this bold stroke had made on the company, when young Fox came in and with a roar of laughter begged me to lend him fifty Louis.  I counted them out with the greatest pleasure, and he paid me them back in London three years later.

Everyone was curious to know the value of the bill of exchange, but I was not polite enough to satisfy their curiosity.  It was for eight thousand Piedmontese francs, as I saw as soon as I was alone.  The Englishmen had brought me good luck, for when they had gone fortune declared for the bank.  I rose at eight o’clock, some ladies having won a few louis, all the others were dried up.  I had won more than a thousand louis, and I gave twenty-five to Desarmoises, who jumped for joy.  I locked up my money, put my pistols in my pocket, and set out towards the meeting-place.

The worthy peasant woman brought me in by the door, telling me that everybody was asleep, and that she had not found it necessary to renew the lay-sister’s dose, as she was still asleep.

I was terrified.  I went upstairs, and by the light of a single candle I saw the wretched, veiled figure of the nun, extended upon a sack which the peasant woman had placed along the wall instead of a sofa.  The candle which lighted this dreary place was fixed in a bottle.

“What have you decided on doing?” said I.

“I have decided on nothing, for an unforeseen incident has confounded us.  The lay-sister has been asleep for eighteen hours.”

“She will die of convulsions or of an apoplectic fit to-night if you do not call a doctor, who may possibly restore her to life with a dose of castor oil.”

“We have thought of that, but we did not dare to take that step for fear of consequences; for whether he restores her or not, he will say that we have poisoned her.”

“I pity you, upon my soul!  Indeed, I believe that it is too late, and that a doctor could do nothing.  One must obey the laws of prudence and let her die.  The mischief is done, and I see no remedy.”