"Ah! you bet on me, do you, seigneur chevalier? Faith! I hope with all my heart that I may win for you."
Cédrille turned toward his neighbors, curious to see the result of the wager.
As for Passedix, he had risen, his long body towered above the table, but his eyes never swerved from the box in which the dice were; and his anxious expression, the way in which he twisted the ends of his cloak in his hands, and the trembling of his whole person, all tended to show how important it was to him that he should win the stake.
At last the bourgeois threw the three dice on the table, and the sum of the points was only eleven.
"Faith! that was rather near!" said the man who had thrown; "but it is not enough—I have lost!"
"And you too, chevalier!" exclaimed the other; "come, hand over your rose crown—it was your own suggestion."
Passedix, whose face had assumed a threatening aspect when he saw the result of the throw, slowly caressed his moustache and replied, dwelling on each word:
"I have lost? that may be!—It was monsieur's fault for throwing badly."
"What's that? I threw badly?"
"Why, yes, to be sure; you shouldn't spend two hours shaking the dice in the box—it tires them, and they can only turn up small numbers!"