But to return to M. de Cernay, he was a very great, and, above all, a very intelligent gambler. This seems in contradiction of those principles of order and economy of which I have just spoken? Not at all. For most men of the world, play is only a frightful challenge that is thrown to fate, a means of burning excitement and terrible emotions; it is more of a necessity than an amusement.
Men have their money for play, which is a given sum that they never exceed. It is a capital which they try to render as profitable as possible by good management, by running no great risks, and by studying the chances and combinations of the game with an incredible ardour; in comprehending its every detail, and in playing constantly, so as to keep in good practice; also by experimenting with the deepest attention in order to make new discoveries; so that in this way the capital brings in, if the season has been a good one, from fifteen to twenty per cent, to a cool, prudent, and skilful player.
And, besides this, play having become an affair of exact science, of interest, and generally of perfect honesty, the forces of the players are generally so equally matched that one can allow himself the excitement of a stake of twelve or fifteen hundred louis, because it is well known that at the end of a bad season the losses and gains are about equal.
Nothing is more curious in our epoch than this strange struggle between a wise and cool forethought which looks to the future, and the ardent passions natural to men; which they find in this way the means of satisfying to a certain degree, by a sort of insurance against bad luck.[1]
M. de Cernay, they say, has been very successful with women; but in growing old, as he said, he had found it more satisfactory, as it gave him more liberty and saved him from worry, besides giving him more chances for display (this was one of his salient points), to put to one side a certain sum of money annually, for his favourite of the season. This amount, which he never went beyond, he laid regularly at the feet of one of the theatrical beauties most in vogue.
I had sent my card with the letters of our mutual friend to M. de Cernay. Two days after he came to see me, but I was out; a few days later I called on him one morning. He lived alone in a very pretty house, which seemed to be the very triumph of all that was comfortable, joined to an elegant simplicity. His valet de chambre begged me to wait an instant in a salon, where I noticed some beautiful hunting scenes by Géricault.
Five minutes after my arrival, M. de Cernay entered. He was tall, slender, and graceful, with a most agreeable face, and manners which were those of the most polished society.
The count received me charmingly, spoke to me of our mutual friend, and offered me his services in the most obliging way. I perceived that he was watching me closely. I had just arrived from the provinces, but I had travelled a great deal and had lived a long time in England; thus he was hesitating, I thought, to find out if he should treat me as a provincial, or as a man already in society. I believe what decided him to treat me as the latter was the vexation which I thought he felt at not seeing me more overpowered with his great elegance. Envied, imitated, flattered, he perhaps found me too much at my ease, too polite, and not sufficiently astonished.
Now I admit that this slight shade of vexation on M. de Cernay's face caused me to smile.
He asked me to have a cup of tea with two of his friends, and an Italian renegade who had taken service with Méhémet-Ali. This Italian, he said, was a man of great bravery, who had gone through the most extraordinary scenes and romantic adventures, been obliged, in fact, to assassinate two or three women and as many men, to save himself and escape from a delicate situation.