One evening in the early part of autumn, several gentlemen were chatting in one of the salons of the Casino. They were members of the early coterie. Some were reading newspapers, and others were talking, seated upon divans, or walking to and fro.
Springer, the Swiss watch-maker’s son, had come in to read a newspaper, and as he read, he heard them talking about his friend Quentin, whom he had not seen for some time. He listened attentively.
“But is it true he has come into some money?” asked a stout, red-faced gentleman with a grey moustache.
“I don’t know,” answered a bald-headed man with a black beard. “He undoubtedly has money. They say that he has bought a house for María Lucena.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Quentin is a child of good luck,” added another.
“I should say he is,” responded he of the black beard. “Lucky at cards, and lucky at love.”
“Couldn’t the Marquis have given him some money?” asked the stout gentleman.
“The Marquis! He hasn’t a penny.”
“But where does the boy get his money?”