There was a pile of gold before Vendôme, who was playing recklessly but with wonderful fortune. His face was flushed and his speech thick, for the goblet on the small service-table at his elbow was ever being filled, and emptied as fast as refilled. Nevertheless, he won each time, though he seemed to fling his cards down on the table without a look or thought.
"The gods are with me," he exclaimed loudly as he pulled off a coup, made utterly by hazard, and drew the stakes towards him.
Diane laughed gaily, but the red fox Caraffa was a bad loser.
"Monseigneur," he said with a snarl, "there is a proverb about luck at cards."
"I know," was the swift and unexpected reply. "Mistrust thy fortune when the knave and the Church are together." And Vendôme pointed to the card the Legate had just played.
There was a titter all around; but Diane's white arm was stretched forth, and she tapped Vendôme with her fan.
"Fie, Monseigneur! Your wit is too cruel. His Eminence but referred to the old saw: lucky at cards, unlucky in love."
The prince gallantly kissed her jewelled hand. "Madame, that is true, for until I met you I never knew how unlucky I was."
La Valentinois did not note the glance in Vendôme's eye, and, vain as a peacock, blushed as she alone could blush. But a murmured word from De Mouchy caught her ear, and leaning back in her chair, her face half turned towards De Mouchy, and her fan outspread between herself and the prince, she asked in a quick whisper:
"Is it over?"