Castorin hurried in, accompanied by Biscarros; together they prepared a table, and the two guests began to play. Castorin, who had been dreaming for ten years of a martingale at trente-et-quarante, and Biscarros, whose eye gleamed covetously at the sight of money, stood on either side of the table looking on. In less than an hour, notwithstanding his prediction, Richon had won forty pistoles from his opponent, whereupon Canolles, who had no more money about him, bade Castorin bring him a further supply from his valise.
"It's not worth while," said Richon, who overheard the order; "I haven't time to give you your revenge."
"What's that? you haven't time?" exclaimed Canolles.
"No; it is eleven o'clock," said Richon, "and at midnight I must be at my post."
"Nonsense! you are joking!" rejoined Canolles.
"Monsieur le Baron," observed Richon, gravely, "you are a soldier, and consequently you know the rigorous rules of the service."
"Then why didn't you go before you won my money?" retorted Canolles, half-smiling, half-angry.
"Do you mean to reproach me for calling upon you?"
"God forbid! But consider; I haven't the slightest inclination to sleep, and I shall be frightfully bored here. Suppose I should propose to bear you company, Richon?"