Ormond replied by a just compliment to the men of letters, who at this period added so much to the brilliancy and pleasure of Parisian society.
“But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, have you?” said the Abbé.
“Much less than I wish. I meet them frequently in society, but as, unluckily, I have no pretensions to their notice, I can only catch a little of their conversation, when I am fortunate enough to be near them.”
“Yes,” said the Abbé, with his peculiar look and tone of good-natured irony, “between the pretty things you are saying and hearing from—Fear nothing, I am not going to name any one, but—every pretty woman in company. I grant you it must be difficult to hear reason in such a situation—as difficult almost as in the midst of the din of all the passions at the faro-table. I observe, however, that you play with astonishing coolness—there is something still—wanting. Excuse me—but you interest me, monsieur; the determination not to play at all—
“Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to play,” said Ormond.
“Ah! but the appetite grows—l’appetit vient en mangeant—the danger is in acquiring the taste—excuse me if I speak too freely.”
“Not at all—you cannot oblige me more. But there is no danger of my acquiring a taste for play, because I am determined to lose.”
“Bon!” said the Abbé; “that is the most singular determination I ever heard: explain that to me, then, Monsieur.”
“I have determined to lose a certain sum—suppose five hundred guineas. I have won and lost backwards and forwards, and have been longer about it than you would conceive to be probable; but it is not lost yet. The moment it is, I shall stop short. By this means I have acquired all the advantages of yielding to the fashionable madness, without risking my future happiness.”
The Abbé was pleased with the idea, and with the frankness and firmness of our young hero.