“Among the young men of my own age, I was particularly intimate with a German of the name of Zilbermann. Like myself, he was a doctor, and equally like myself without practice. We passed the greatest part of our leisure hours together: in other words, we were almost inseparable. Our tastes were much the same, save on one point, where we differed essentially. Zilbermann was passionately fond of gambling, while I felt no attraction for play. My antipathy for cards must indeed have been excessive to prevent me yielding to the force of contagion, for my friend won large sums, enabling him to live like a great gentleman, while I, though most economical, could not help incurring debts. However this may be, Zilbermann and I lived on terms of fraternal intimacy. His purse was at my service, but I used it discreetly, as I knew not when I should be able to return what I borrowed. His delicacy and generosity towards me led me to believe he was frank and loyal with all the world, but I was deceived.
“One day, when I had only left him a few hours before, one of his servants came hastily to summon me, stating that his master had been dangerously wounded, and begged to see me at once. I ran off directly, and found my unhappy friend lying on his couch with a face of deadly pallor. Overcoming my grief, I proceeded to offer him succor. Zilbermann stopped me, motioned me to sit down, dismissed his attendants, and, after being assured we were alone, begged me to listen to him. His voice, weakened by the pain he was suffering, scarcely reached my ear, and I was forced to stoop down over him.
“‘My dear Edmond,’ he said to me, ‘a man accused me of cheating. I challenged him—we fought with pistols—and his bullet is lodged in my chest.’
“And when I urged Zilbermann to let me attend to him, he added:
“‘It is useless, my friend. I feel I am wounded to death. I have hardly time to make a confession, for which I claim all your indulgent friendship. Learn, then,’ he added, offering me a hand damp with death, ‘I was not unjustly insulted. I am ashamed to confess that, for a long time, I have lived at the expense of my dupes. Aided by a fatal skill, and still more by an instrument I invented, I daily cheated at play.’
“‘How—you, Zilbermann?’ I said, withdrawing my hand sharply.
“‘Yes, I!’ the dying man replied, seeming by a glance to supplicate my mercy.
“‘Edmond!’ he added, collecting all his remaining strength, ‘in the name of our old friendship do not abandon me! For the honor of my family, let not this proof of my infamy be found here. I implore you to remove this instrument.’ And he showed me a small box attached to his arm.
“I unfastened it, and like yourself, my boy, looked at it, without understanding its use. Revived by a thought of his culpable passion, Zilbermann added, with the most lively admiration,
“‘And yet see how ingenious it was. This box can be attached to the arm without perceptibly increasing its size. Ready packed cards are put in it beforehand; when you are going to cut, you put your hand quietly over the cards on the table, so as to cover them completely; then you press this spring by resting your arm gently on the table. The prepared cards come out while a pair of pincers seize the other pack and draw it up into the box. To-day, for the first time, the instrument failed me—the pincers left a card on the table. My adversary——’