In a moment of weakness and frenzy, he forged the name of a wealthy cousin in Moscow upon a bank in St. Petersburg, and asked an acquaintance, to whom he had brought letters of introduction, to cash it for accommodation. The request was granted as soon as made. The Russian hurried to the Conversationshaus, confident that he would win enough to take up the draft, which he had expressed a desire that his friend would hold for a day or two, as he might in the meantime receive a remittance from his father.
The fates were hostile. When the officer laid his wager on black, the red won; and when he trusted the red, the black triumphed.
PAYING THE DEBT OF NATURE.
In three hours the entire amount of the draft had melted away. Ruin stared him in the face,—not only financial ruin, but ruin to his good name, his honor, his self-esteem, which he had prized more than life itself. Hopeful as he had been, he had prepared himself for such a desperate emergency. He had a small Deringer pistol in his pocket, and rising from the table, and stepping back two or three paces, he put it closely to his heart, and pulled the trigger.
SUICIDE FROM REMORSE.
The galerie, intent on the game, did not notice his movement and the first intimation it had of anything unusual was the report of the weapon and the heavy fall of the officer on the floor. The ruined gamester gasped twice or thrice, and his life went out with the blood that crimsoned his bosom.
The players—some of them, at least—were startled for a moment; several of the ladies shrieked, and one, an American, swooned. The tailleur and the croupiers looked on unmoved, and expressed some surprise that the young man had not been polite enough to step into the garden before shooting himself. The tailleur announced that the game would be suspended for half an hour. In that time the body was removed, the blood washed away, and the eternal Faites votre jeu, messieurs; le jeu est fait; rien ne va plus, was croaked out once more; the cards were laid, and the coin pushed over, or raked in by the solemnly silent croupier.
Women, with the retiring modesty that belongs to their sex, seldom make an exhibition of themselves, even when they are the heroines of their own tragedy.
At Ems, recently, a young English lady of family became engaged to a gentleman in her own grade of life, who could not bear the idea of women gambling. She had been at the baths for several seasons with her father; had frequently staked money at the tables, and had formed a strong attachment thereto. Her father was aware that she played sometimes for amusement, but never suspected how much of a fascination the game had for her. Unknown to him, she had pawned her jewels to obtain money to hazard at rouge-et-noir.
After her engagement, her lover told her how much he was shocked to see any members of her sex degrade themselves by gaming, and added that, much as he cherished her, he would rather behold her dead than receiving a fortune from the hands of a croupier. Deeply impressed by the earnestness of his words, she resolved never again to take any part in the dangerous excitement. For weeks she adhered to her resolution; but, one evening, while strolling through the Curhaus, she so far forgot herself as to venture a napoleon, and, winning that, to venture and to lose twenty more. For three days she continued to bet secretly, and at the end of the time felt convinced the passion was too strong to be surrendered. Such self-knowledge was terrible indeed, and so deep was her mental distress that she determined to live no longer. Purchasing a vial of laudanum, she went to her own room, and writing a letter to her affianced husband, in which she made a full confession of what she had done, and of the unendurable misery her conduct had caused her, she swallowed the poison, and was found, the next morning, dead in her bed. Her affianced lover was overwhelmed with sorrow, and protested that he should never more know an hour’s peace.