“I’m passionately fond of baccarat,” Valérie remarked, as they sat opposite one another, chatting and laughing. “It’s so long since I played that I had almost forgotten the game. Had I had any more money in my purse to-night, I should most probably have staked it. Gambling, unfortunately, is one of my weaknesses.”
“Why not accept some from me, and return? You might perhaps break the bank,” he suggested, smiling.
“Ah no,” she replied; “I don’t care to play publicly. It is the same here as at Monte Carlo—the tables are patronised by déclassé women and half-tipsy men. Women who play in a place like this earn a bad name. I would rather play at the hotel. Adolphe will return presently,—he’s an awfully nice fellow, the son of a silk manufacturer in Lyons,—and we could form a nice little quartette among ourselves. What do you say?”
“I’m quite agreeable,” he replied. “You know, I alway obey your wishes.”
She looked into his eyes affectionately, and uttered a few endearing words in a low tone that could not be overheard.
Presently they got up, went arm-in-arm up the grand staircase, and re-entered the salle de jeu. The count was no longer there, but they soon discovered him standing in his former position on the balcony, indulging in a smoke under the stars. He had lost, he said; his luck had forsaken him after Valérie had left the table.
Then they told him of the suggestion to play at the hotel—a proposition to which he immediately acquiesced.
Hugh Trethowen, truth to tell, cared very little about games of chance, but for the amusement of his idol he was prepared to make any sacrifice.
An hour before midnight the four assembled in a private sitting-room at the Hôtel de l’Europe. Pierre Rouillier—or Adolphe Chavoix, as he was now called by his fellow-adventurers—had procured a piece of billiard chalk, and marked the table at which they were to play. The heavy curtains of the windows overlooking the street were drawn, and over the gas lamp was a lace shade which caused a soft, subdued light to fall upon the table, while opposite the windows was a large mirror reaching from the wainscot to the ceiling.
“Who’ll be banker?” asked Adolphe, as they seated themselves.