“That is not a bad idea.”
They pooled their money and continued playing. Horacio played according to the baroness’s directions. They were lucky and won. Gradually the parlor became thronged with a variegated, exotic crowd. There were two well-known members of the aristocracy, a bull-fighter, soldiers. Several women and their daughters were pressed closely around the tables.
Manuel caught sight of Irene, Doña Violante’s granddaughter, beside an old gentleman with his hair pasted down. The man was playing heavily. His fingers were fairly concealed by rings set with huge stones.
Seated upon a divan near Manuel, a very pale and emaciated old gentleman with a white beard was conversing with a beardless youth who looked bored.
“Have you withdrawn from the game so soon?” asked the young man.
“Yes. I withdrew because my money ran out. Otherwise I’d have kept on playing until they found me lying dead across the green cloth. To me, this is the only life. I’m like La Valiente. She knows me, and she says to me now and then: ‘Let’s go in it together, Marquis?’—‘I won’t bring you bad luck,’ is my answer.”
“Who is La Valiente?”
“You’ll see her soon, when the baccarat begins.”
A light was turned on over the table.
An old man with moustaches like a musketeer’s arose with a deck of cards in his hands and leaned against the edge of the table.