“Wert thou as wise as this hand is fair it should direct my play; but it is only a woman’s hand, and points the way to perdition.”
Fareham had been losing steadily from the moment he took up Lady Lucretia’s cards; and his pile of jacobuses had been gradually passed over to De Malfort’s side of the table. He had emptied his pockets, and had scrawled two or three I.O.U.’s upon scraps of paper torn from a note-book. Yet he went on playing, with the same immovable countenance. The room had emptied itself, the rest of the visitors leaving earlier than their usual hour in that hospitable house. Perhaps because the hostess was missing; perhaps because the royal sun was shining elsewhere.
Lackeys handed their salvers of Burgundy and Bordeaux, and the players refreshed themselves occasionally with a brimmer of clary; but no wine brightened Fareham’s scowling brow, or changed the gloomy intensity of his outlook.
“My cards have brought your lordship bad luck,” said Lady Lucretia, who watched De Malfort’s winnings with an air of personal interest.
“I knew my risk before I took them, madam. When an Englishman plays against a Frenchman he is a fool if he is not prepared to be rooked.”
“Fareham, are you mad?” cried De Malfort, starting to his feet. “To insult your friend’s country, and, by basest implication, your friend.”
“I see no friend here. I say that you Frenchmen cheat at cards—on principle—and are proud of being cheats! I have heard De Gramont brag of having lured a man to his tent, and fed him, and wined him, and fleeced him while he was drunk.” He took a goblet of claret from the lackey who brought his salver, emptied it, and went on, hoarse with passion. “To the marrow of your bones you are false, all of you! You do not cog your dice, perhaps, but you bubble your friends with finesses, and are as much sharpers at heart as the lowest tat-mongers in Alsatia. You empty our purses, and cozen our women with twanging guitars and jingling rhymes, and laugh at us because we are honest and trust you. Seducers, tricksters, poltroons!”
The footman was at De Malfort’s elbow now. He snatched a tankard from the salver, and flung the contents across the table, straight at Fareham’s face.
“This bully forces me to spoil his Point de Venise,” he said coolly, as he set down the tankard. “There should be a law for chaining up rabid curs that have run mad without provocation.”
Fareham sprang to his feet, black and terrible, but with a savage exultation in his countenance. The wine poured in a red stream from his point-lace cravat, but had not touched his face.