"Next morning he felt in a sort of stupor on awaking. The money was lying on the table by his bed, just as he had shaken it out of his pockets. At first he thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes and drew the table nearer to him. But as he gradually recollected what had happened--when he sunk his hands well into the heap of gold money, and counted the coins delightedly over and over again--suddenly there awoke in him, and passed through his being like a poisoned breath, the love of the vile mammon. The pureness of mind which had so long been his was gone.
"He could scarcely wait till evening came to get back to the play-table. His luck continued to attend him, so that in a few weeks, during which he played every night, he had won a very large sum.
"There are two sorts of gamblers. To many the game in itself presents an indescribable, mysterious joy, quite without any reference to winning. The wonderful enchainments of the chances alternate in the most marvellous variety; the influence of the Powers which govern the issue displays itself, so that, inspired by this, our spirits stretch their wings in an attempt to reach that darksome realm, that mysterious laboratory, where the Power in question works, and there see it working. I knew a man once who used to sit alone in his room for days and nights keeping banque, and staking against himself. That man, I consider, was a proper player. Others have only the gain in view, and look upon the game as a means of winning money quickly. The Chevalier belonged to the latter class, thereby proving the theory that the true passion for play must exist in a person's nature, and be born with him.
"For this reason the circle within which the mere ponteur is restricted soon became too narrow for him. With the very large sum he had now won he started a banque of his own; and here, too, fortune favoured him, so that in a very short time his was the richest banque in Paris. As lies in the nature of things, to him, as the luckiest, richest banquier, resorted the greatest number of players.
"The wild rugged life of a gambler soon blotted out in him all those mental and bodily superiorities which had formerly brought him love and consideration. He ceased to be a faithful friend, an open-hearted pleasant companion, a chivalric and gallant honourer of ladies. His love for art and science was extinguished, as well as all his wish to make progress in knowledge of the desirable sort. In his deathly pale countenance and gloomy eyes, sparkling with darksome fire, was imprinted the plain expression of that devouring passion which held him fast in its bands. It was not the love of play, it was the most detestable avarice, the craving for money, which the Devil himself had kindled within him. In one word, he was the most thorough specimen of a banquier ever seen.
"One night--though he had not, so to speak, lost very much--he found that fortune had not been quite so favourable to him as usual. And just at this juncture there came up to the table a little old weazened man, in poverty-stricken clothes, and altogether of almost disgustingly repulsive appearance. He drew a card, with shaking hand, and staked a piece of gold on it. Several of those at the table looked at him with deep amazement, and immediately behaved towards him with conspicuous despite; but he took not the slightest notice, not even by a look, far less by a word.
"He lost--lost one piece of gold after another, and the more he lost the better the other players were pleased. And when the old man, who kept on doubling his stakes, at last staked five hundred louis on a card, and lost it in a moment, one of them cried out, laughing loud, 'Well done, Signor Vertua; keep it up! Don't give in; keep up your game! You seem to me as if you would certainly break the bank, your luck is so splendid!'
"The old man darted a basilisk look at him, and ran off out of the room as quickly as he could; but only to come back in half an hour, with his pockets crammed with gold. When the final taille came he could not go on, as he had lost all the money he brought with him the second time.
"The Chevalier, who, notwithstanding all the atrocity of his ongoings, still insisted on there being a certain observance of ordinary convenance amongst the frequenters of his establishment, had been in the highest degree displeased at the derision and contempt with which the old man had been treated, which was sufficient reason for his talking very seriously, when the evening's play was over, to the man who had jeered at him, and to one or two others whose contemptuous behaviour to him had been the most striking, and whom the Chevalier had begged to remain behind on purpose.
"'That fellow,' one of them cried out. 'You don't know old Francesco Vertua, Chevalier, or you wouldn't find fault with us for what we did. You would rather thank us. This Vertua, by birth a Neapolitan, has been for fifteen years here, in Paris, the most vile, foul, wicked miser and usurer that could exist. He is lost to every feeling of humanity. If his own brother were to drag himself to his door, writhing in the death agony, and curl round about his feet, he wouldn't give a louis d'or to help him. The curses and execrations of heaps of people, whole families, whom he has driven to ruin by his infernal machinations, lie heavy on him. There is nobody who does not pray that vengeance for what he has done, and is always doing, may overtake him and finish his sin-spotted life. He has never played, at all events since he has been in Paris, and you need not be astonished at our surprise when we saw the old skinflint come to the table. Of course we were just as delighted at his losing, for it would have been altogether too bad if fortune had favoured the scoundrel. The wealth of your banque has dazzled the old noodle. He thought he was going to pluck you, but he has lost his own feathers. But the thing I can't understand is how he can have made up his miserly mind to play so high.'