The capricious goddess, far from being grateful for his trust, forsook him.
In two hands, the only thousand-franc note he possessed fell into the hands of his opponent.
Now it is, that, pressed on by the glances of Chauvignac, as well as anxious to regain his loss, Olivier essays some of the manœuvres which his friend had taught him.
They were easy to execute, for the Count was so near-sighted, that his nose was almost buried in his cards.
Of course the luck now turned, and the bank-notes began to accumulate beside Olivier, who, elated with his success, was indefatigable in his work.
The Count Vandermool was a good-tempered player. His repeated losses did not make him lose his jovial good-humour.
To look at his happy countenance, you would certainly have thought he was the winner.
"I am not in a lucky vein," observed he, good-naturedly, taking a pinch of snuff from a superb gold snuff-box. "In this last trick, I vainly hoped to gain all, and I've got nothing."
Olivier was serious, his mind was not in a state to talk lightly. He continued to handle his cards with feverish eagerness.
Not wishing, however, to seem wanting in politeness towards so noble a host—"You are admirable to-night," said he to him with a faint smile.