“Ringwood was at his rooms, having ‘half a round’ with the Oxford Chicken, a promising young bruiser who, having recently killed his man in a prize-fight, had come over to Paris for change of air. There was bottled English porter on the table, sand upon the floor to prevent slipping, and the walls were profusely adorned with portraits of well-known pugilists, sketches of steeple-chases, boxing-gloves, masks, and single-sticks. In the comfortable embraces of an arm-chair sat Archibald Lowther, Honest Tom’s particular ally, who, in every respect, was the very opposite of his Achates. Lowther affected the foreigner and dandy as much as Ringwood assumed the bluff and rustic Briton; wore beard and mustaches, and brilliant waistcoats, owned shirt-studs by the score and rings by the gross, lisped out his words with the aid of a silver toothpick, and was never seen without a smile of supreme amiability upon his dark, handsome countenance. Fortunately, both these gentlemen were disengaged for the evening. The day passed in lounging and billiard playing, varied by luncheon and a fair allowance of liquids, and at half past seven we sat down to dinner. It did not occur to me at the time that, although Darvel’s invitation had the appearance of an impromptu, he did not warn his servant of expected guests, or return home till within an hour of dinnertime. Nevertheless, all was in readiness; not the promised fowl and leg of mutton, but an exquisite repast, redolent of spices and truffles, with wines of every description. I was in high spirits, and drank freely, mixing my liquor without scruple, and towards ten o’clock I was much exhilarated, although not yet drunk, and still tolerably cognisant of my actions. Then came coffee and liqueurs, and whilst Darvel searched in an adjoining room for some particularly fine cigars for my special smoking, Lowther cleared a table, and rummaged in the drawers for cards and dice, whilst Ringwood called for lemons and sugar, and compounded a fiery bowl of Kirschwasser punch. It was quite clear we were to have a night of it. Darvel’s declaration that he would have no high play in his rooms, and would turn every one out at midnight, was replied to by me with a boisterous shout of laughter, in which I was vociferously joined by Lowther, who, to all appearance, was more than half tipsy. We sat down to play for moderate stakes; fortune favoured me at the expense of Ringwood and Lowther. The former looked sulky, the latter became peevishly noisy and excited, cursed his luck, and insisted on increasing the stakes. Darvel strongly objected; as winner, I held myself bound to oppose him, and the majority carried the day. The stakes were doubled, quadrupled, and at last became extravagantly high. Presently in came a couple more ‘friends,’ in full evening costume, white-waistcoated and gold-buttoned, patent leather, starch and buckram from heel to eyebrow. They were on their way to a rout at the Marchioness of Montepulciano’s, but, seeing light through Darvel’s windows, came up ‘just to see what was going on.’ With great difficulty they were prevailed upon to take a cigar and a hand at cards, and to disappoint the Marchioness. It was I who, inspired by deep potations and unbounded good fellowship, urged and insisted upon their stopping. My three friends did not seem nearly so cordial in their solicitations, and subsequently, when I came to think over the night’s proceedings, I remembered a look of vexation exchanged between them, upon the entrance of the uninvited vultures who thus intruded for their share of the spoil. Doubtless, the worthy trio would rather have kept me to themselves. They suppressed their discontent, however; externally all was honeyed cordiality and good feeling; the Bully made perpetual bowls of punch, and I quaffed the blazing alcohol till I could scarcely distinguish the pips on the cards. But scenes like these have been too often described for their details to have much interest. Enough, that at six o’clock the following morning I threw myself upon my bed, fevered, frantic, and a beggar. I had given orders upon my London agent for the very last farthing I possessed.
“Lowther, to all appearance the least sober and worst player of the party, had been chief winner. Ringwood had won a little; Madam Montepulciano’s friends did not make a bad night’s work of it, although they declared their gains trifling, but as there had been a good deal of gold and some bank-notes upon the table, it was difficult to say exactly how the thing had gone. Darvel, who had frequently made attempts to stop the play—attempts frustrated by Lowther’s drunken violence, Ringwood’s dogged sullenness, and my own mad eagerness,—was visibly a loser; but what mattered that, when his confederates won? There is honour amongst thieves, and no doubt next day witnessed an equitable division of the spoils.
“It was the second day after the debauch before I again saw any of my kind friends. I spent the greater part of the intervening one in bed, exhausted and utterly desponding, revolving in my mind my desperate position. I had no heart to go out or see any body. At last Darvel called upon me, affected great sorrow for my losses, deplored my obstinacy in playing high against his advice, and inveighed against Lowther for his drunken persistence. Anxiety and previous excess had rendered me really unwell; Darvel insisted on sending me his physician, and left me with many expressions of kindness, and a promise to call next day. All this feigned sympathy was not lavished without an object; the gang had discovered I might still be of use to them. In what way, I did not long remain ignorant. During a week or more that I remained in the house, suffering from a sort of low fever, Darvel came daily to sit with me, brought me newspapers, told me the gossip of the hour, and not unfrequently threw out hints of better times near at hand, when the blind goddess should again smile upon me. At last I learned in what way her smiles were to be purchased. I was convalescent; my doctor had paid his farewell visit, and pocketed my last napoleon, when Darvel entered my room. After the usual commonplace inquiries, he sat down by the fire, silent, and with a gloomy countenance. I could not help noticing this, for I was accustomed to see him cheerful and talkative upon his visits to me; and I presently inquired if any thing had gone wrong.
“‘Yes—no—nothing with me exactly, but for you. I am disappointed on your account.’
“‘On my account?’
“‘Yes. I wrote to England some days ago, urging friends of mine in high places to get you a snug berth, and to-day I have received answers.’
“‘Well?’
“‘No, ill—cold comfort enough. Lots of promises, but with an unmistakable hint that many are to be served before me, and that we must wait several months,—which with those people means several years,—before there will be a chance of a good wind blowing your way. I am infernally sorry for it.’
“‘And I also,’ I replied, mournfully. There was a short pause.
“‘How are you off for the sinews of war?’ said Darvel.