Of English people, their habits, modes of life, and thought, the Chevalier spoke to me with a freedom he never would have used if he had not believed me to be a Spaniard, and only connected with Ireland through the remote chain of ancestry. This deceit of mine was one he never penetrated, and I often thought over the fact with satisfaction. To encourage his frankness on the subject of my country, I affected to know nothing, or next to nothing, of England; and gradually he grew to be more communicative, and at last spoke with an unguarded freedom which soon opened to me a clew of his real history.
It was one day as we walked the deck together that, after discussing the tastes and pursuits of the wealthy English, he began to talk of their passion for sport, and especially horse-racing. The character of this national pastime he appeared to understand perfectly, not as a mere foreigner who had witnessed a Derby or a Doncaster, but as one conversant with the traditions of the turf or the private life of the jockey and the trainer.
I saw that he colored all his descriptions with a tint meant to excite an interest within me for these sports. He drew a picture of an “Ascot meeting,” wherein were assembled all the ingredients that could excite the curiosity and gratify the ambition of a wealthy, high-spirited youth; and he dilated with enthusiasm upon his own first impressions of these scenes, mingled with half-regrets of how many of his once friends had quitted the “Turf” since he last saw it!
He spoke familiarly of those whose names I had often read in newspapers as the great leaders of the “sporting world,” and affected to have known them all on terms of intimacy and friendship. Even had the theme been less attractive to me, I would have encouraged it for other reasons, a strange glimmering suspicion ever haunting my mind that I had heard of the worthy Chevalier before, and under another title; and so completely had this idea gained possession of me that I could think of nothing else.
At length, after we had been some weeks at sea, the welcome cry of “Land!” was given from the mast-head; but as the weather was hazy and thick, we were compelled to shorten sail, and made comparatively little way through the water; so that at nightfall we saw that another day must elapse ere we touched mother earth again.
The Chevalier and the Captain both dined with me; the latter, however, soon repaired to the deck, leaving us in tête-à-tête. It was in all likelihood the last evening we should ever pass together, and I felt a most eager longing to ascertain the truth of my vague suspicions. Chance gave me the opportunity. We had been playing cards, and luck—contrary to custom, and in part owing to my always shuffling the cards after my adversary—had deserted him and taken my side. At first this seemed to amuse him, and he merely complimented me upon my fortune, and smiled blandly at my success. After a while, however, his continued losses began to irritate him, and I could see that his habitual command of temper was yielding to a peevish, captious spirit he had never exhibited previously.
“Shall we double our stake?” said he, after a long run of ill-luck.
“If you prefer it, of course,” said I. And we played on, but ever with the same result.
“Come,” cried he, at last, “I 'll wager fifty Napoleons on this game.” The bet was made, and he lost it! With the like fortune he played on and on, till at last, as day was dawning, he had not only lost all that he had won from me during the voyage, but a considerable sum besides, and for which he gave me his check upon a well-known banker at Paris.
“Shall I tell you your fortune, Monsieur le Comte?” said he, in a tone of bitterness that almost startled me.