“Who deals?” asked the old man.
“Fifty duros,” murmured one.
“Sixty.”
“A hundred.”
“A hundred and fifty duros.”
“Two hundred,” shrieked a woman’s voice.
“That’s La Valiente,” said the marquis.
Manuel contemplated her with curiosity. She was between thirty and forty; she wore a tailor-made costume and a Frégoli hat. She was very dark, with an olive complexion and beautiful black eyes. She would gamble until she could hardly see, and then go out into the corridors for a smoke. She brimmed over with energy and intelligence. They said she carried a revolver. She had no use for men and fell passionately in love with women. Her most recent conquest had been the colonel’s elder daughter, the buxom blonde, whom she dominated. At times she was favored by the most unbelievable luck, and to assuage her pangs of passion, she played and won in most insolent fashion.
“And that fellow who never plays, yet is always here,—who is he?” asked the young man, pointing to a coarse looking old fellow of about seventy, with dyed moustaches.
“He’s a moneylender who, I believe, is the partner of the Colonel’s wife. When I was Governor of La Coruña he was waiting trial for some piece of smuggling or other that he had perpetrated at the Customs House. They removed him from office, and then gave him a commission in the Philippines.”