“‘But what have you to stake against a trinket of so much value?’ returned M. de Talleyrand, endeavouring to laugh away the impression which, in spite of himself, the occurrences of the evening had made upon his mind. ‘Look round the room,’ was the answer, ‘choose any article you like; I feel sure that this time I shall win it; for it was when you were at your wit’s end that fortune changed!’
“M. de Talleyrand looked round the room, but it was only for form’s sake. He had already in his own mind chosen his booty. It was a small silver urn, of antique form and most delicate workmanship. Its weight and value did not seem very great, neither was it chiselled or adorned in any manner, but its form was so graceful and elegant, its proportions so exquisite, that it could not fail to attract the eye of a connoisseur, and he named it with less compunction from a knowledge of the smallness of its intrinsic value. The moment he mentioned it, however, all the desperate gaiety of the chevalier seemed to have received a sudden check. He started, and set down the glass he was about to raise to his lips, and, looking full and steadily into the face of his companion, while, however, his lips quivered slightly, and his voice was much subdued, he answered, ‘You have fixed upon the only thing from which I cannot—I dare not part. I could not risk the loss of that little vase were all the riches in the universe staked against it.’
“M. de Talleyrand was much astonished to find that there was anything in the world to which Fénélon attached importance, and rallied him upon the discovery; but, surprising to say, this jest was not met by the usual spirited rejoinder. His companion answered not, but calling for more champagne, swallowed a tremendous bumper at a single draught.
“M. de Talleyrand, of course, could offer no objection to this reasoning, and with a heavy purse and lightened heart he bade his friend good night, and left the room. Scarcely, however, had he reached the outer door of the apartment, when the valet-de-chambre, who had been fast asleep in the ante-chamber, came running after him, with a request from his master that he would return. The chevalier was standing over the fire, leaning against the chimney, and clasping the urn, which he had taken from the book-case where it had reposed, close to his heart. In an instant, M. de Talleyrand could perceive that the bottle which he had left upon the table was now emptied; and, as Fénélon turned towards him, he was startled at beholding his discomposed and agitated countenance. ‘I have changed my mind,’ said he; ‘this may be to me what the pin is to you. I have resolved to try its magic influence against that which has protected you. Speak not a word—ask me no question—I shall deem the slightest remark as a summons to meet you in the Bois de Boulogne, with witnesses and loaded weapons!’
“M. de Talleyrand did as he was requested; he placed his enjeu before him; but he observed that Fénélon grasped the urn with trembling fingers, until compelled to lose his hold in order to survey his game. A frightful oath—frightful from the compressed energy with which it was uttered, flew from his white lips as he looked at his cards; and, with the instinct of an experienced gamester, beheld his fate. By a really extraordinary chance, it so happened that this time the cards held by M. de Talleyrand were what he calls fabuleuses—pique, repique and capot were carried in the one hand, and the chevalier sat amazed and stupified, not having been called upon to count a single point. He rose from the table in desperation, and seized the urn, which M. de Talleyrand remarked he had removed from the table with almost religious care when the game began, and handed it to his friend, but at arm’s length and with averted gaze. The prince had not courage to pursue the torture, and he said, as he waved it back, ‘Do not press me to accept the trinket, M. de Fénélon. Take it, I beseech you, as a gift from me; ’twill be but an earnest of the rest of all I have won of you, for you are sure to have it back again. You know well that I always succeed in keeping my winnings just long enough to make the loss of them more severely felt.’
“‘No!’ returned the chevalier, fiercely; ‘what is lost is lost. It is your right to keep the bauble, and I ask favour of no man. Away with it, then! To demur in taking up your lawful gains is to give offence to the loser.’
“‘Well, as you like,’ returned the prince; ‘but remember, I hold the urn at your disposal should you alter your determination.’
“He took the vase, and placed it beneath his coat. The wistful gaze of the chevalier smote him to the very heart; but, after the fierce manner in which his attention had been received, he sought no second rebuke, and was about to depart; when suddenly, to his great surprise and alarm, the chevalier rushed forward and tore it from his grasp, exclaiming, in a tone of the most bitter rage, ‘By the Lord, I am a fool. I played for nought but the urn. ’Twas the urn alone I lost. You cannot deny that’—and he cast a furious glance towards his astonished guest; ‘you said not a word of the contents. They are mine by every law; you dare not say ’tis otherwise. I defy you to tell me that I spoke of its contents.’
“M. de Talleyrand answered not; he was appalled at sight of this sudden outburst of fury, and Fénélon having, with trembling fingers, succeeded in tearing open the lid which covered the little vase, and dashed it with a violent effort against the side of the chimney, a slender column of dark-coloured ashes, almost impalpable, fell through the small aperture into the fire, where it blazed with a small sparkling blue flame for a single moment, then smouldered into darkness, leaving behind a strong aromatic odour, which seemed to hang heavily on the atmosphere of the room, causing a sensation of sickness and a dimness of the sight. Even this died away before the chevalier had ceased gazing at the spot where the substance had fallen; and M. de Talleyrand, embarrassed and fearful of giving further offence in the strange mood in which his companion was, once more slowly took up the urn and sought the door. He could not avoid turning back to catch one last glance of the Chevalier de Fénélon. He was leaning with his elbows on the mantelpiece and his forehead buried in his hands. The bright light from the tapers in the girandoles fell full upon his countenance and struck upon the tears which were rolling down his cheeks, causing them to sparkle and to glisten as they fell.
“The prince closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs, full of a solemn wonder at what he had beheld. He grasped the urn with a nervous energy beneath his mantle, and with a trembling dread did he pause beneath the first lamp which hung suspended above the causeway, to examine it more closely, inspired by a far different interest from that with which he had hitherto beheld it. He turned it again and again to the light, but could discern no inscription whereby to gain a clue to guess at its former destination; the same sickening odour of scented oils and aromatic spices greeted him from the unclosed aperture, and it was still heated almost to burning by the careless manner in which the chevalier had held it to the fire, when shaking out its mysterious contents.