“Well, I never heard of a room without a pack of cards before,” said the Chevalier; “I will send for one to my own apartments.”
“Perhaps Ernstorff has got a pack. Here, Ernstorff, have you got a pack of cards? That’s well; bring it immediately.”
The cards were brought, and the Chevalier began to fight his battle over again; but could not satisfy Mr. St. George. “You see, there was the bet with the Governor, and the pips, as I said before, with the Archbishop of Warsaw.”
“My dear De Boeffleurs, let’s no more of this. If you like to have a game of ecarté with St. George, well and good; but as for quarrelling the whole evening about some blundering lie of Salvinski’s, it really is too much. You two can play, and I can talk to Don Vivian, who, by-the-bye, is rather of the rueful countenance to-night. Why, my dear fellow, I have not heard your voice this evening: frightened by the fate of the Archbishop of Warsaw, I suppose?”
“Ecarté is so devilish dull,” said St. George; “and it is such a trouble to deal.”
“I will deal for both, if you like,” said De Boeffleurs; “I am used to dealing.”
“Oh! no, I won’t play ecarté; let us have something in which we can all join.”
“Rouge-et-noir,” suggested the Chevalier, in a careless tone, as if he had no taste for the amusement.
“There is not enough, is there?” asked St. George.
“Oh! two are enough, you know; one deals, much more four.”