rouge et noir, are never exacted.  As I pressed nearer, to discover the cause of the mirth, which every moment seemed to augment, guess my surprise to perceive among the foremost rank of the players, my acquaintance, Mr. O’Leary, whom I at that moment believed to be solacing himself with his meershaum at Meurice.  My astonishment at how he obtained admission to the Salon was even less than my fear of his recognising me.  At no time is it agreeable to find that the man who is regarded as the buffo of a party turns out to be your friend, but still less is this so, when the individual claiming acquaintance with you presents any striking absurdity in his dress or manner, strongly at contrast with the persons and things about him; and thus it now happened—­Mr. O’Leary’s external man, as we met him on the Calais road, with its various accompaniments of blouse-cap, spectacles, and tobacco-pipe, were nothing very outre or remarkable, but when the same figure presented itself among the elegans of the Parisian world, redolent of eau de Portugal, and superb in the glories of brocade waistcoats and velvet coats, the thing was too absurd, and I longed to steal away before any chance should present itself of a recognition.  This, however, was impossible, as the crowd from the other table were all gathered round us, and I was obliged to stand fast, and trust that the excitement of the game, in which he appeared to be thoroughly occupied, might keep his eye fixed on another quarter; I now observed that the same scene in which I had so lately been occupied at the rouge et noir table, was enacting here, under rather different circumstances.  Mr. O’Leary was the only player, as I had just been—­not, however, because his success absorbed all the interest of the bystanders, but that, unfortunately, his constant want of it elicited some strong expression of discontent and mistrust from him, which excited the loud laughter of the others; but of which, from his great anxiety in his game, he seemed totally unconscious.

“Faites votre jeu, Messieurs,” said the croupier.

“Wait a bit till I change this,” said Mr. O’Leary, producing an English sovereign; the action interpreted his wishes, and the money was converted into coupons de jeu.

I now discovered one great cause of the mirth of the bystanders, at least the English portion of them.  Mr. O’Leary, when placing his money upon the table, observed the singular practice of announcing aloud the amount of his bet, which, for his own information, he not only reduced to English but also Irish currency; thus the stillness of the room was every instant broken by a strong Irish accent pronouncing something of this sort—­“five francs,” “four and a penny”—­“ten francs,” “eight and three ha’pence.”  The amusement thus caused was increased by the excitement his losses threw him into.  He now ceased to play for several times, when at last, he made an offering of his usual stake.

“Perd,” said the croupier, raking in the piece with a contemptuous air at the smallness of the bet, and in no way pleased that the interest Mr. O’Leary excited should prevent the other players from betting.