“No, no!” cried several voices, inclined to favour D’Hauteville.
“At one bet,” repeated he, in a determined tone. “Place it upon the ace!”
“As you wish, sir,” responded Chorley, with perfect sang-froid, at the same time handing back the ring to its owner.
D’Hauteville took the jewel in his slender white fingers, and laid it on the centre of the card. It was the only bet made. The other players had become so interested in the result, that they withheld their stakes in order to watch it.
Chorley commenced drawing the cards. Each one as it came forth caused a momentary thrill of expectancy; and when aces, deuces, or trés with their broad white margins appeared outside the edge of that mysterious box, the excitement became intense.
It was a long time before two aces came together. It seemed as if the very importance of the stakes called for more than the usual time to decide the bet.
It was decided at length. The ring followed the watch.
I caught D’Hauteville by the arm, and drew him away from the table. This time he followed me unresistingly—as he had nothing more to lay.
“What matters it?” said he, with a gay air as we passed together out of the saloon. “Ah! yes,” he continued, changing his tone, “ah, yes, it does matter! It matters to you, and Aurore!”