And he went out.
We learnt next day that, made desperate by his losses, he had blown out his brains in his room, after drinking a bowl of punch.
The forty thousand francs that Roger had won from him were spread out on the table, and Gabrielle gazed at them with a smile of satisfaction.
"See how rich we are!" she said. "What shall we do with all this money?"
Roger did not answer her; he seemed stunned since the Dutchman's death.
"We can do a thousand delicious things," she went on. "Money gained so easily ought to be spent as lightly. Let us set up a carriage, and snap our fingers at the Maritime Prefect and his wife. I want some diamonds and some Cashmere shawls. Ask for a holiday, and let us go to Paris; we could never spend so much money here!"
She stopped to look at Roger, whose eyes were fixed on the ceiling; his head was leant on his hand, and he had not heard a word; he seemed to be a prey to the most miserable thoughts.
"What on earth's wrong with you, Roger?" she cried, leaning her hand on his shoulder. "You will make me pull faces at you presently. I cannot get a word out of you."
"I am very unhappy," he said at length, with a smothered sigh.
"Unhappy! Why, I do believe you regret having pinked that big mynheer."