“Little by little, being a kind and sympathetic man, he drew from her the story I have told you.  Georges became his patient also, but was always reticent in regard to `le jeu.’  Dr S. tried to dissuade him from visiting the tables, on the ground that the atmosphere in the saloons would prove poisonous to him and perhaps even fatal.  But although, in deference to this counsel, the young man shortened somewhat the duration of his `sittings,’ and spent more time under the trees with Pauline, he did not by any means abandon, his `speculation,’ hoping always, no doubt, as all losers hope, to see the luck turn and to take revenge on Fortune.”

“And the luck has not turned yet in Saint-Cyr’s case, I suppose?” said I.

“No,” answered my friend.  “I fear things are going very ill with him and poor Pauline’s dot.”

As he spoke he rose from the dinner-table, and we strolled out together upon the moonlight terrace of the hotel.  “In ten minutes,” said I, “my train starts.  I am going back to Nice tonight.  Despite all its loveliness, Monte Carlo is hateful to me, and I do not care to sleep under its shadow.  But before I go, I have a favour to ask of you.  Let me know the sequel of the story you have told me tonight.  I want to know how it ends—­in triumph or in tragedy.  Dr S. will always be able to keep you informed whether you remain here or not.  Write to me as soon as there is anything to tell, and you will do me a signal kindness.  You see you are such an admirable raconteur that you have interested me irresistibly in your subject and must pay the penalty of talent!”

He laughed, broke off the laugh in a sigh, then shook hands with me, and we parted.

About two months later, after my return to England, I had from my friend the following letter:—­

“You have, I do not doubt, retained your interest in the fortunes of the two young people who so much attracted you at the tables last April.  Well, I have just seen my friend Dr S. in Lyons, and he has related to me the saddest tale you can imagine concerning Georges and Pauline.  Here it is, just as he gave it, and while it is fresh in my memory.  It seems that all through the month of April and well into May, Saint-Cyr’s ill luck stuck to him.  He lost daily, and at last only a very slender remnant of his wife’s money was left to play with.  Week by week, too, he grew more wasted and feeble, fading with his fading fortune.  As for Pauline, although she did not complain about herself, Dr S. saw reason to feel much anxiety on her account.  Grief and sickened hope and the wear of the terrible life she and Georges were leading combined to break down her strength.  Phthisis, too, although not a contagious malady in the common sense of the term, is apt to exercise on debilitated persons constantly exposed to the companionship of its victims an extremely baleful effect, and to this danger Pauline was daily and nightly subjected.