“A thousand pardons!” he exclaimed, as the Chevalier touched his arm; “I did not know that you were ready. Is it my turn to stake?”
The noir nodded, and the possessor of five louis pushed three of them towards the centre of the table. The slim hand, however, never reached the little rosewood centre of its goal, for it was arrested by the sudden opening of the heavily gilded folding-door.
“Monsieur le Marquis de Château-Foix!” announced the strident voice of a lackey.
The arrival sufficed to divert most people’s attention. As for the noir’s partner, he had sprung to his feet, upsetting his chair, his gaze riveted upon the newcomer. “Gilbert! as I live!” he exclaimed in accents of the profoundest astonishment.
For the handsome player in grey was no other than Louis-Adrien-Marie-Hyacinthe de Chantemerle, Vicomte de Saint-Ermay, and a visitor from the shades could not have surprised him more.
For a moment the Marquis stood on the threshold, a tall dark figure, glancing swiftly round the company with an air of quiet self-possession. Then he moved forward to take the outstretched hand of the Comte de Larny, who had hurried from the other side of the room.
“This is indeed a surprise,” said the latter—“and a pleasure!” he hastened to add with effusion. The Marquis bowed slightly. He was perfectly aware of the falsity of the last statement. No one of his Liberal views was likely to be popular in the present assembly—nay, would probably be regarded as something worse than a Jacobin. Since M. de Larny was also aware of this fact, his usually suave manner became a little flustered, but, as he had every wish to be polite to the cousin of his kinsman Saint-Ermay, he caught hold of the two nearest guests and presented them to the newcomer.
By this time the Vicomte had definitely abandoned his game (which at one moment he had seemed to have a wish to continue) and had advanced to greet his cousin. The Marquis was exchanging civilities with an acquaintance, but as the young man approached he broke off, and held out his hand with a smile. “I want a word or two with you presently, Louis,” he said carelessly, and resumed his conversation.
The Vicomte de Saint-Ermay nodded rather disconsolately, and strolled back to his fellow-players. But they had broken up and the table was deserted. He threw himself down in his former chair, crossed his legs, put an elbow on the table, and waited. He was not sure that he was glad to see his cousin in the present company. In spite of temperamental gulfs, there subsisted between them a very sincere if limited affection, and he knew how far from friendly to the Marquis were the dispositions of most present. And though he permitted himself free criticism, not to say mockery, of his kinsman’s views and actions, he very rarely indulged in it except to Gilbert’s face, and at no time encouraged it in others. The smiles and glances around him were therefore highly galling to the feeling of mingled affection, amusement, and family pride with which he regarded Château-Foix.
“You appear to be sulking, Saint-Ermay,” said a voice suddenly behind him. “Can it be that you are bankrupt?” And the speaker, a young exquisite like himself, powdered and point-devise, but lacking his own good looks, perched himself on the table and leant towards him. “Are your pockets quite empty?”