"The chips, Koukou," demanded the Hetman, "We are not here to amuse ourselves."
The Zwinglian cook placed a box of many-colored chips in front of him. Count Bielowsky set about counting them and arranging them in little piles with infinite care.
"The white are worth a louis," he explained to me. "The red, a hundred francs. The yellow, five hundred. The green, a thousand. Oh, it's the devil of a game that we play here. You will see."
"I open with ten thousand," said the Zwinglian cook.
"Twelve thousand," said the Hetman.
"Thirteen," said Sydya with a slow smile, as she seated herself on the count's knee and began to arrange her chips lovingly in little piles.
"Fourteen," I said.
"Fifteen," said the sharp voice of Rosita, the old manicure.
"Seventeen," proclaimed the Hetman.
"Twenty thousand," the cook broke in.