“I fancy the gentleman said 'noir,'” remarked a bystander.
“Let him declare for himself,” observed another.
“But the game has already begun,” said the banker.
“So much the worse for the bank,” remarked another, laughing, “for it's easy to see what will win.”
“Pray declare your color, sir,” said an impatient gambler at Dalton's side; “the whole table is waiting for you.”
Dalton started, and, darting an angry look at the speaker, made an effort to rise from the table. He failed at first, but grasping the shoulder of the croupier, he arose to his full height, and stared around him. All was hushed and still, not a sound was heard, as in that assembly, torn with so many passions, every eye was turned towards the gigantic old man, who, with red eyeballs and outstretched hands, seemed to hurl defiance at them. Backwards and forwards he swayed for a second or two, and then, with a low, faint cry,—the last wail of a broken heart,—he fell with a crash upon the table. There he lay, his white hairs streaming over the gold and silver pieces, and his bony fingers flattened upon the cards. “A fit!——he's in a fit!” cried some, as they endeavored to raise him.—“Worse still!” remarked another, and he passed his hand from the pulse to the heart, “he is dead!”
The hero of a hundred fights, he who has seen death in every shape and on every field, must yield the palm of indifference to its terrors to the gambler. All the glorious insanity of a battle, all the reckless enthusiasm of a storm, even the headlong impetuosity of a charge, cannot supply the cold apathy of the gambler's heart; and so was it that they saw in that lifeless form nothing beyond a disagreeable interruption to their game, and muttered their impatience at the delay in its removal.
“Well,” said Mrs. Ricketts, as she sat in an adjoining apartment, “have you any tidings of our dear 'Amphytrion?'——is he winning to-night?” The question was addressed to the tall, dark man, who so lately had been standing behind Dalton's chair, and was our old acquaintance, Count Petrolaffsky.
“He no win no more, Madame,” replied he, solemnly.
“Has he gone away, then?—has he gone home without us?”