The two first adversaries allowed their turn to pass, without risking anything.
"Ten louis," said the third player.
"Twenty," said Talleyrand.
"Forty," said the adversary.
"I stake my all," continued the Diplomatist, pointing to the hundred louis before him, and, at the same time, he let a card fall out of his hand on the table.
It was a nine; he took it up again hastily.
His adversary had just time to see the card, and, although he had a brelan of kings, he thought it more prudent to stop betting.
He concluded that Talleyrand must have a first-rate hand, to back it so heavily. He was led to this opinion, because the turn-up card was a nine, and in all probability, the nine which fell from the hands of the Diplomatist, was one of a brelan of four.
Each player laid his hand on the table; Talleyrand gained with three odd cards, amongst which was the nine he had dropped insidiously on the table to deceive his adversary.
Here I had better stop; for, if I continued such stories for many more pages, I fear that the heading of this chapter would be insensibly merged in those which have preceded it. My readers must, however, by this time, be sufficiently edified on the nature of the rogueries I have exposed, and will be strengthened in the opinion, that an honourable player ought only to take the advantages offered him by his own good fortune or good play.