“Not captivated, but interested, I confess.” Then, in the tone of good-humor which was habitual to him, he added: “As for being the sage you call me, that’s all nonsense. And to prove it, I’m going to risk my louis with the rest.”
M. de Coralth seemed amazed, but a close observer might have detected a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You are going to play—you?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Take care!”
“Of what, pray? The worst I can do is to lose what I have in my pocket—something over two hundred francs.”
The viscount shook his head thoughtfully. “It isn’t that which one has cause to fear. The devil always has a hand in this business, and the first time a man plays he’s sure to win.”
“And is that a misfortune?”
“Yes, because the recollection of these first winnings is sure to lure you back to the gaming-table again. You go back, you lose, you try to recover your money, and that’s the end of it—you become a gambler.”
Pascal Ferailleur’s smile was the smile of a man who has full confidence in himself. “My brain is not so easily turned, I hope,” said he. “I have the thought of my name, and the fortune I must make, as ballast for it.”
“I beseech you not to play,” insisted the viscount. “Listen to me; you don’t know what this passion for play is; the strongest and the coldest natures succumb—don’t play.”