“I have won, you see,” said Zicci: “may we be friends still?”
“Signor,” said the Prince, obviously struggling with angel and confusion, “the victory is already yours. But, pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl,—will anything tempt you to yield your claim?”
“Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry.”
“Enough,” said the Prince, forcing a smile, “I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously: will you honor me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give on the royal birthday?”
“It is indeed a happiness to hear one command of yours which I can obey.”
Zicci then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly and soon afterwards departed.
“Villain,” then exclaimed the Prince, grasping Mascari by the collar, “you have betrayed me!”
“I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged,—he should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that’s the end of it.”
“There is no time to be lost,” said the Prince, quitting hold of his parasite, who quietly resettled his cravat.
“My blood is up! I will win this girl, if I die for it. Who laughed? Mascari, didst thou laugh?”