Chaudoreille won the first game, then a second and a third, because, thanks to the marks he had made on the back of each card, he knew them as well by their backs as by their faces.
"It's singular," said Marcel, "that I never win anything; you always have the best cards."
"What would you have? It's chance, luck; but it will probably turn."
The luck did not turn and Marcel's crowns passed into Chaudoreille's pocket. The chevalier was scarlet, trembling, and the veins on his forehead were swollen by the ardor of his play, when the bell at the garden gate rang violently.
"Oh, the deuce! there's somebody," said Marcel.
"I am lost!" cried Chaudoreille jumping on his chair, "it is somebody come to arrest me."
He immediately rose and ran around the room, went through the first door he saw and disappeared, without listening to Marcel, who called to him,—
"It's monseigneur; it's M. de Villebelle; keep still and I'll let you out without his seeing you."
But Chaudoreille had disappeared and the bell continued to ring. Marcel was obliged to open the gate without knowing what had become of his guest.