“Come! this is stupid!” she exclaimed. “I will take the deal. We will still be partners?” she asked of Oscar.
Fanny Beaupré rose, and the lad, who, like her, was now the centre of attention to the whole table, dared not withdraw, saying that the devil alone was lodged in his purse. He was speechless, his tongue felt heavy and stuck to his palate.
“Lend me five hundred francs,” said the actress to the dancer.
Florentine brought her five hundred francs, which she borrowed of Georges, who had just won at écarté eight times running.
“Nathan has won twelve hundred francs,” said the actress to the clerk. “The dealer always wins; do not let us be made fools of,” she whispered in his ear.
Every man of feeling, of imagination, of spirit will understand that poor Oscar could not help opening his pocketbook and taking out the five hundred franc note. He looked at Nathan, the famous writer, who, in partnership with Florine, staked high against the dealer.
“Now then, boy, sweep it in!” cried Fanny Beaupré, signing to Oscar to take up two hundred francs that Florine and Nathan had lost.
The actress did not spare the losers her banter and jests. She enlivened the game by remarks of a character which Oscar thought strange; but delight stifled these reflections, for the first two deals brought in winnings of two thousand francs. Oscar longed to be suddenly taken ill and to fly, leaving his partner to her fate, but honor forbade it. Three more deals had carried away the profits. Oscar felt the cold sweat down his spine; he was quite sobered now. The last two rounds absorbed a thousand francs staked by the partners; Oscar felt thirsty, and drank off three glasses of iced punch.
The actress led him into an adjoining room, talking nonsense to divert him; but the sense of his error so completely overwhelmed Oscar, to whom Desroches’ face appeared like a vision in a dream, that he sank on to a splendid ottoman in a dark corner and hid his face in his handkerchief. He was fairly crying. Florentine detected him in this attitude, too sincere not to strike an actress; she hurried up to Oscar, pulled away the handkerchief, and seeing his tears led him into a boudoir.
“What is the matter, my boy?” said she.
To this voice, these words, this tone, Oscar, recognizing the motherliness of a courtesan’s kindness, replied:
“I have lost five hundred francs that my master gave me to pay tomorrow morning for a judgment; there is nothing for it but to throw myself into the river; I am disgraced.”
“How can you be so silly?” cried Florentine. “Stay where you are, I will bring you a thousand francs. Try to recover it all, but only risk five hundred francs, so as to keep your chief’s money. Georges plays a first-rate game at écarté; bet on him.”
Oscar, in his dreadful position, accepted the offer of the mistress of the house.
“Ah!” thought he, “none but a Marquise would be capable of such an action. Beautiful, noble, and immensely rich! Georges is a lucky dog!”
He received a thousand francs in gold from the hands of Florentine, and went to bet on the man who had played him this trick. The punters were pleased at the arrival of a new man, for they all, with the instinct of gamblers, went over to the side of Giroudeau, the old Imperial officer.
“Gentlemen,” said Georges, “you will be punished for your defection, for I am in luck.—Come, Oscar; we will do for them.”
But Georges and his backer lost five games running. Having thrown away his thousand francs, Oscar, carried away by the gambling fever, insisted on holding the cards. As a result of the luck that often favors a beginner, he won; but Georges puzzled him with advice; he told him how to discard, and frequently snatched his hand from him, so that the conflict of two wills, two minds, spoiled the run of luck. In short, by three in the morning, after many turns of fortune and unhoped-for recoveries, still drinking punch, Oscar found himself possessed of no more than a hundred francs. He rose from the table, his brain heavy and dizzy, walked a few steps, and dropped on to a sofa in the boudoir, his eyes sealed in leaden slumbers.
“Mariette,” said Fanny Beaupré to Godeschal’s sister, who had come in at about two in the morning, “will you dine here tomorrow? My Camusot will be here and Père Cardot; we will make them mad.”
“How?” cried Florentine. “My old man has not sent me word.”
“He will be here this morning to tell you that he proposes to sing la Mere Godichon” replied Fanny Beaupré. “He must give a housewarming too, poor man.”
“The devil take him and his orgies!” exclaimed Florentine. “He and his son-in-law are worse than magistrates or managers.—After all, Mariette, you dine well here,” she went on. “Cardot orders everything from Chevet. Bring your Duc de Maufrigneuse; we will have fun, and make them dance.”
Oscar, who caught the names of Cardot and Camusot, made an effort to rouse himself; but he could only mutter a word or two which were not heard, and fell back on the silk cushion.
“You are provided, I see,” said Fanny Beaupré to Florentine, with a laugh.
“Ah! poor boy, he is drunk with punch and despair. He has lost some money his master had entrusted to him for some office business. He was going to kill himself, so I lent him a thousand francs, of which those robbers Finot and Giroudeau have fleeced him. Poor innocent!”
“But we must wake him,” said Mariette. “My brother will stand no nonsense, nor his master either.”
“Well, wake him if you can, and get him away,” said Florentine, going back into the drawing-room to take leave of those who were not gone.
The party then took to dancing—character dances, as they were called; and at daybreak
