He very soon found out what he was accused of; and, being large-minded

and liberal--hating nothing so much as avarice--he determined to show

his calumniators how much they were mistaken, and--much as he detested

play--sacrifice a hundred Louis d'Ors or so--more if necessary--to

prove to them their error. He went to the faro-table with the firm

resolution to lose the rather considerable sum which he had in his

pocket. But the luck which accompanied him in everything he set about

was true to him here too. Everything he staked on won. His luck

shipwrecked the cabalistic calculations of the old, deeply experienced

gamblers. It was all the same whether he exchanged his cards, or stuck

to them; he always won. He furnished a unique instance of a _ponteur_

wild with disgust because the cards favoured him. The by-standers,

watching him, shook their heads significantly at each other, implying

that the Baron might come to lose his head, carried along by this

concatenation of the unusual. For indeed, a man who was furious because

he was lucky, must surely be a _little_ off his head.

The very circumstance that he had won a considerable sum necessitated

him to go on playing; and as this gain must, in all probability, be

followed by a still greater loss, he felt bound to carry out his

original plan. However, he found it not so easy; his extraordinary luck

continued to stick to him.

Without his exactly noticing it himself, a love for the game of Faro

arose within him, and grew. In its very simpleness, Faro is, in truth,

the most mysterious of all games.

He was not annoyed at being lucky _now_. The game fettered his

attention, and kept him absorbed in it, night after night, till

morning. As it was not the winning which interested him, but the game

itself, he was forced to admit the existence of that extraordinary

_spell_ connected with it which his friends had spoken of to him, but

which he had refused to believe in.

One night when the banker had just finished a "taille," on looking up

he saw an elderly man, who had placed himself opposite to him, and was

keeping a grave, melancholy gaze fixed upon him. And every time

Siegfried looked up from his game, he found this grave, melancholy gaze

still fixed upon him, so that he could not divest himself of a strong,

rather eery sensation. The Stranger did not go away till the playing

was over for the night. Next evening he was there again, in his old

place opposite the Baron, gazing at him continually, with his gloomy,

spectral eves. The Baron restrained himself; but when, on the third

night, the Stranger was there again, gazing at him with eyes of

devouring fire, Siegfried broke out: "I must really beg you, sir, to

select some other place. You are interfering with my play."

The stranger bowed, with a pained smile, and, without a word, left the

table, and the room.

But the following night he was standing in his old place, opposite to

Siegfried, transfixing him with his gloomy, glowing eyes. The Baron

broke out more angrily than on the previous night. "If it is any

entertainment to you, sir, to glare at me in that sort of manner, I

must beg you to select another place and another time. But--for the

present"--a motion of the hand in the direction of the door took the

place of the hard words which the Baron had on the tip of his tongue.

And, as on the previous night, the Stranger, bowing with the same

pained smile, left the room. Excited by the game, by the wine he had

taken, and by the encounter with the Stranger, Siegfried could not

sleep. When morning broke, the whole appearance of the Stranger rose to

his memory. He saw the expressive face, the well-cut features, marked

with sorrow, the hollow gloomy eyes which had gazed at him. He noticed

that though he was poorly dressed, his refined manners and bearing

spoke of good birth and up-bringing. And then the way in which he had

received the hard words with quiet resignation, and gone away,

swallowing the bitterness of his feelings with a power over himself.

"Oh!" said Siegfried, "I was wrong--I did him great injustice. Is it

like me to fly into a passion, and insult people without rhyme or

reason, like a foolish boy?" He came to the conclusion that the man had

been gazing at him with a bitter sense of the tremendous contrast

between them. At the moment when he--perhaps--was in the depths of

distress, the Baron was heaping gold on the top of gold, and carrying

all before him. He determined that the first thing in the morning he

would go and find out the Stranger, and do something to remedy his

condition.

And, as fate would have it, the Stranger was the first person he met,

as he was taking a walk down the Alleé.

The Baron addressed him, apologised for his behaviour on the previous

night, and formally asked him to forgive him. The Stranger said there

was nothing to forgive. People who were much interested in their game

must have every consideration, and he quite deserved to be reminded

that he was obstinately planting himself in a place where he could not

but put the Baron out in his play.

The Baron went further. He spoke of the circumstance that in life

temporary difficulties often come upon people of education in the most

trying manner, and he gave him pretty clearly to understand that he

was ready to pay him back the money he had won from him, or more, if

necessary, should that be likely to be of any assistance to him.

"My dear sir," said the Stranger, "you suppose that I am pressed for

money. Strictly speaking, I am not. Although I am rather a poor man

than a rich, I have enough for my little requirements. And you will see

in a moment, if you consider, that if you should suppose you could

atone for an insult to me by offering me a sum of money, I could not

accept it, even as a mere ordinary man of honour. And I am a

Chevalier."

"I think I understand you," said the Baron; "I am quite ready to give

you satisfaction in the way you mean."

"Oh, good heavens!" the Stranger said; "what a very unequal affair a

fight would be between us. I feel sure that, like myself, you do not

look upon the duel as a mere piece of childish fanfaronade, nor

consider that a drop or two of blood--perhaps from a scratched

finger--can wash a stained honour white again. No, no! there are plenty

of causes which render it impossible for two men to go on existing on

this earth at the same time. Although one of them may be on the

Caucasus and the other on the Tiber, there is no separation between

them so long as the notion of the existence of the hated one subsists.

In a case like that the duel, which is to decide the question which of

those two is to make way on this earth for the other, is a positive

necessity. But between _us_ a duel, as I said, would be one-sided,

since my life is nothing like as valuable as yours. If I killed you I

should destroy a whole world of the fairest hopes. But if I fell, you

would end a miserable existence, marred by the most bitter and painful

memories. However, the chief point is that I do not consider myself in

the smallest degree offended. You told me to go, and I went."

He spoke the latter words in a tone which betrayed his inward

mortification, which was sufficient reason for the Baron to apologise

to him once more, laying special weight on the circumstance that the

Stranger's gaze seemed somehow (he could not tell why) to go

penetrating into him to such an extent that he could bear it no longer.

"If my gaze penetrated you, as you say it did," said the Stranger,

"would to God it had carried with it the conviction of the threatening

peril in which you stand. In your gladness of heart, with all your

youthful unknowingness, you are hovering on the very brink of a

terrible abyss. One single impulse, and into it you fall, without the

possibility of rescue. In one word, you are on the point of becoming a

passionate gambler, and of going to perdition."

The Baron assured him that he was completely mistaken. He explained to

him how it was that he had been led at first to go to the tables, and

that the true love of play was completely absent from him--that all he

desired was to lose a few hundred louis, and, having accomplished that,

he would play no more; but that, up to this time, he had had the most

extraordinary luck.

"Alas!" cried the Stranger, "it is just that very luck which is the

most terrible, mocking temptation of the Infernal Power. Just this very

luck of yours, Baron, the whole way in which you have been led on to

play, the whole style of your playing, and everything connected with

the matter, show but too plainly how your interest in it keeps on

increasing and increasing. Everything about it reminds me only too

clearly of the fate of an unfortunate fellow who begun exactly as you

have done. This was why I could not take my eyes from you, why I could

scarce refrain from telling you in words what my eyes intended to say

to you, namely, 'For heaven's sake look at the fiends that are

stretching out their talons to drag you down to perdition;' that is

what I longed to cry out to you. I wished to make your acquaintance,

and in that I have succeeded. Let me tell you the story of the

unfortunate man to whom I have referred, and then perhaps you will see

that it is no idle cobweb of my brain which makes me see you to be in

the most imminent peril, and that I give you fair warning."

They sate down on a seat which was in a lonely place, and the Stranger

commenced as follows. "The same brilliant gifts which distinguish you,

Baron, procured for the Chevalier Menars the respect and admiration of

men, and rendered him the beloved of women. Only as far as wealth was

concerned fortune had not been so kind to him as to you. He was on the

confines of penury, and nothing but the most scrupulous economy enabled

him to keep up the decent appearance which his position as the

descendant of a family of condition demanded of him. Since the very

smallest loss of money would have been of much consequence to him,

upsetting all his course of life, he was precluded from everything in

the shape of play. But he had not the smallest inclination for it, so

that his avoidance of it involved not the slightest sacrifice on his

part. He was excessively lucky in whatever he undertook, so that his

good fortune became a species of proverb.

"Contrarily to his habit he allowed himself to be persuaded one night

to go to a gambling-house, where the friends who were with him were

soon deep in the game.

"Taking no interest in the game, with his mind fully occupied about

something else, he strolled up and down the room, just now and then

casting a glance at the table, where the gold was streaming in upon the

banquier from every side. All at once an elderly Colonel observed him,

and cried out, 'Oh, the devil! here's the Chevalier Menars, with his

luck, and none of us can win because he hasn't taken a side. This won't

do. He must stake for me instantly.'

"The Chevalier tried his utmost to excuse himself, saying he knew

nothing about the game. But nothing would serve the Colonel but that he

must to the table willy nilly.

"It happened to him exactly as it did to you, Baron. He won on every

card, so that he soon had hauled in a considerable sum for the Colonel,

who could not congratulate himself enough on the great idea he had been

inspired with of availing himself of the celebrated luck of the

Chevalier Menars.

"On the Chevalier himself his luck, which so astonished all the others,

made not the slightest impression. Nay, he did not himself quite

understand how it came about that his detestation of play, if possible,

increased, so that the next morning, when he felt the languor and

listlessness consequent on having sat up so late, and gone through the

excitement, he made a firm resolution that nothing would ever induce

him to enter a gambling-house again.

"This resolution was strengthened by the conduct of the old Colonel,

who had the most extraordinary ill-luck as soon as he took a card in

his hand, and attributed this, in the most absurd way, to the

Chevalier. And he insisted, in the most importunate manner, that Menars

should either play his cards for him, or at all events be at his side

when he played himself, by way of exorcising the demon who placed

in his hand the losing cards. We know that nowhere is there such

absurd superstition as amongst gamblers. It was only with the utmost

difficulty that Menars managed to shake the Colonel off. He had even to

go the length of telling him he would rather fight him than stake for

him; and the Colonel was by no means fond of fighting. The Chevalier

cursed himself for ever having yielded to the old ass at all.

"Of course the story of the Chevalier's luck could not but be passed on

from one to another, with all sorts of mysterious, inexplicable

additions added on to it, representing him as a man in league with

supernatural powers. But that one who had his luck should go on

abstaining from touching cards was a thing which could not but give the

highest idea of the firmness of his character, and much increase the

consideration in which he was held.

"A year after this the Chevalier found himself in the most pressing and

distressing embarrassment in consequence of the non-payment to him of

the trifling sum on which he managed by a struggle to live. He was

obliged to confide this to his most intimate friend, who, without a

moment's hesitation, helped him to what he required, at the same time

telling him he was the most extraordinary, eccentric individual the

world had ever probably contained.

"'Destiny,' he said, 'gives us hints, indications of the direction in

which we have to seek and find our welfare, and it is only our

indolence which is to blame when we neglect those hints and fail to

understand them. The Power which rules over us has very distinctly

whispered into your ear, "If thou wouldest have money and possessions,

go and play; otherwise thou wilt for ever remain poor, needy,

dependent."'

"Then, for the first time, the thought of the wonderful luck he had

had at the faro table rose vividly before his mind's eye, and, waking

and dreaming, he saw cards before him, and heard the monotonous

_gagne-perd_ of the banquier, and the clink of the gold pieces.

"'It is true,' he said to himself, 'a single night like that one would

raise me out of poverty, and free me from the terrible necessity of

being a burden on my friends. It is simply a duty to follow the

promptings of Destiny.'

"The same friend who advised him to take to playing went with him to

the table, and, to make him easy in his mind, presented him with twenty

louis d'or.

"If his game had been an extraordinary one when he was staking for the

old Colonel, it was doubly so now. He drew out his cards by chance, by

accident, and staked on them, whatever they happened to be. And the

unseen hand of that higher Power, which is in league with that which we

term 'Chance'--nay, which _is_ that Chance--directed his play. When the

game was done he had won 1000 louis d'or.

"Next morning he felt in a sort of stupor on awaking. The money was

lying on the table by his bed, just as he had shaken it out of his

pockets. At first he thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes and

drew the table nearer to him. But as he gradually recollected what had

happened--when he sunk his hands well into the heap of gold money, and

counted the coins delightedly over and over again--suddenly there awoke

in him, and passed through his being like a poisoned breath, the love

of the vile mammon. The pureness of mind which had so long been his was

gone.

"He could scarcely wait till evening came to get back to the

play-table. His luck continued to attend him, so that in a few weeks,

during which he played every night, he had won a very large sum.

"There are two sorts of gamblers. To many the game in itself presents

an indescribable, mysterious joy, quite without any reference to

winning. The wonderful enchainments of the chances alternate in the

most marvellous variety; the influence of the Powers which govern the

issue displays itself, so that, inspired by this, our spirits stretch

their wings in an attempt to reach that darksome realm, that mysterious

laboratory, where the Power in question works, and there see it

working. I knew a man once who used to sit alone in his room for days

and nights keeping banque, and staking against himself. That man, I

consider, was a proper player. Others have only the gain in view, and

look upon the game as a means of winning money quickly. The Chevalier

belonged to the latter class, thereby proving the theory that the true

passion for play must exist in a person's nature, and be born with him.

"For this reason the circle within which the mere ponteur is restricted

soon became too narrow for him. With the very large sum he had now won

he started a banque of his own; and here, too, fortune favoured him, so

that in a very short time his was the richest banque in Paris. As lies

in the nature of things, to him, as the luckiest, richest banquier,

resorted the greatest number of players.

"The wild rugged life of a gambler soon blotted out in him all those

mental and bodily superiorities which had formerly brought him love and

consideration. He ceased to be a faithful friend, an open-hearted

pleasant companion, a chivalric and gallant honourer of ladies. His

love for art and science was extinguished, as well as all his wish to

make progress in knowledge of the desirable sort. In his deathly pale

countenance and gloomy eyes, sparkling with darksome fire, was

imprinted the plain expression of that devouring passion which held him

fast in its bands. It was not the love of play, it was the most

detestable avarice, the craving for money, which the Devil himself had

kindled within him. In one word, he was the most thorough specimen of a

banquier ever seen.

"One night--though he had not, so to speak, lost very much--he found

that fortune had not been quite so favourable to him as usual. And just

at this juncture there came up to the table a little old weazened man,

in poverty-stricken clothes, and altogether of almost disgustingly

repulsive appearance. He drew a card, with shaking hand, and staked a

piece of gold on it. Several of those at the table looked at him with

deep amazement, and immediately behaved towards him with conspicuous

despite; but he took not the slightest notice, not even by a look, far

less by a word.

"He lost--lost one piece of gold after another, and the more he lost

the better the other players were pleased. And when the old man, who

kept on doubling his stakes, at last staked five hundred louis on a

card, and lost it in a moment, one of them cried out, laughing loud,

'Well done, Signor Vertua; keep it up! Don't give in; keep up your

game! You seem to me as if you would certainly break the bank, your

luck is so splendid!'

"The old man darted a basilisk look at him, and ran off out of the room

as quickly as he could; but only to come back in half an hour, with his

pockets crammed with gold. When the final _taille_ came he could not go

on, as he had lost all the money he brought with him the second time.

"The Chevalier, who, notwithstanding all the atrocity of his ongoings,

still insisted on there being a certain observance of ordinary

_convenance_ amongst the frequenters of his establishment, had been in

the highest degree displeased at the derision and contempt with which

the old man had been treated, which was sufficient reason for his

talking very seriously, when the evening's play was over, to the man

who had jeered at him, and to one or two others whose contemptuous

behaviour to him had been the most striking, and whom the Chevalier had

begged to remain behind on purpose.

"'That fellow,' one of them cried out. 'You don't know old Francesco

Vertua, Chevalier, or you wouldn't find fault with us for what we did.

You would rather thank us. This Vertua, by birth a Neapolitan, has been

for fifteen years here, in Paris, the most vile, foul, wicked miser and

usurer that could exist. He is lost to every feeling of humanity. If

his own brother were to drag himself to his door, writhing in the death

agony, and curl round about his feet, he wouldn't give a louis d'or to

help him. The curses and execrations of heaps of people, whole families,

whom he has driven to ruin by his infernal machinations, lie heavy on

him. There is nobody who does not pray that vengeance for what he has

done, and is always doing, may overtake him and finish his sin-spotted

life. He has never played, at all events since he has been in Paris,

and you need not be astonished at our surprise when we saw the old

skinflint come to the table. Of course we were just as delighted at

his losing, for it would have been altogether too bad if fortune had

favoured the scoundrel. The wealth of your banque has dazzled the old

noodle. He thought he was going to pluck you, but he has lost his own

feathers. But the thing I can't understand is how he can have made up

his miserly mind to play so high.'

"This, however, did not prove well founded, for the next night Vertua

made his appearance, and staked and lost a great deal more than on the

night before. He was quite impassible all the time; in fact, he now and

then smiled with a bitter irony, as one who knew how utterly

differently everything would soon turn. But his losses swelled like a

mountain avalanche on each of the succeeding nights, so that at last it

was calculated that he had lost to the banque well on to thirty

thousand louis d'or. After this, he came one night, long after the play

had begun, pale as death, with his face all drawn, and stationed

himself at some distance from the table, with his eyes fixed on the

cards which the Chevalier was dealing. At last, when the Chevalier had

shuffled, had the cards cut, and was going to begin the deal, the old

man cried out, in a screaming voice, 'Stop!' Every one looked round,

almost terrified. The old man elbowed his way through the crowd close

up to the Chevalier, and whispered into his ear, 'Chevalier, my house

in the Rue St. Honoré, with all its contents, in furniture, gold,

silver, and jewels, is valued at eighty thousand francs. I stake it! Do

you accept?'

"'Yes,' said the Chevalier calmly, without looking at him, and began to

deal.

"'Queen!' said the old man, and the queen lost. The old man fell back,

and leaned against the wall, motionless as a stone image. Nobody

troubled himself further about him. When the game was over for the

night, and the Chevalier and his croupiers were packing away the won

money in the strong box, Vertua came wavering like a spectre forward

out of his corner. In a hollow, faint voice, he said, 'One word,

Chevalier; one single word.'

"'Well, what is it?' said the Chevalier, taking the key from the box

and putting it in his pocket, as he surveyed the old man contemptuously

from head to foot.

"'I have lost all I possessed in the world to your banque, Chevalier.

I have nothing left--nothing. I don't know where I shall lay my head

to-morrow, or how I shall appease my hunger. I betake myself to you.

Lend me the tenth part of the sum you have won from me, that I may

recommence my business, and raise myself from the depths of poverty.'

"'How can you be so absurd, Signor Vertua,' said the Chevalier. 'Don't

you know that a banquier never lends his winnings? It would be against

all the rules, and I abide by them.'

"'You are right, Chevalier,' said Vertua. 'What I asked was absurd,

extravagant. Not a tenth part--lend me a twentieth part.'

"'What I tell you is,' said the Chevalier, 'that I never lend any of my

winnings.'

"'Quite right,' said Vertua, his face growing paler and paler, and his

looks more fixed and staring. 'Of course you can't lend. I never used

to do it myself. But give an alms to a beggar. Let him have one hundred

louis d'or out of the fortune which blind Chance threw to you tonight.'

"'Well, really, Signor Vertua, you understand how to bother,' was the

Chevalier's answer. 'I tell you that not one hundred, nor fifty, nor

twenty, nor one single louis d'or will you get out of me. I should be a

lunatic to give you any help towards recommencing your shameful trade.

Fate has dashed you down into the dust like a venomous reptile, and it

would be a crime to lift you up. Be off with you, and die, as you

deserve to do.'

"Vertua sank down, with both his hands before his face. The Chevalier

ordered his servants to take the Strong box down to the carriage, and

then cried out, in a domineering way, 'When are you going to make over

your house and effects to me, Signor Vertua?'

"Vertua raised himself from the ground, saying, in a firm voice, 'At

once. This very moment, Chevalier. Come with me.'

"'Good,' said the Chevalier, 'you may drive there with me. To-morrow

you must leave it for good and all.'

"On the way neither of them spoke. When they came to the house in the

Rue St. Honoré Vertua rang at the door, and a little old woman opened,

and cried, when she saw him, 'Oh, saviour of the world, is it you at

last, signor? Angela has been nearly dead with anxiety about you.'

"'Hush!' said Vertua. 'Heaven grant that Angela has not heard the

unlucky bell. I don't want her to know that I have come.' He took the

candle-holder from the amazed old woman's hand, and lighted the

Chevalier up the staircase to the salon.

"'I am ready for everything,' said Vertua. 'You detest me and despise

me. You ruin me for the gratification of yourself and others. But you

do not know me. I will tell you, then, that I was once a gambler like

yourself; that capricious fortune was as kind to me as to you; that I

travelled over the half of Europe, stopping wherever high play and the

expectation of large winnings attracted me to remain; that the gold in

the banque which I kept was heaped up as mountain high as in your own.

I had a devoted and beautiful wife, whom I neglected, who was miserable

in the midst of the most marvellous wealth. It happened once, in Genoa,

when I had started my banque there, that a young Roman lost all his

great fortune to me. As I begged of you to-day, he begged of me that I

would lend him as much money as would, at all events, take him to Rome.

I refused, with scornful laughter, and in his despair he thrust his

stiletto deep into my breast. The surgeons managed to cure me with

difficulty, and my illness was long and painful. My wife nursed me,

comforted me, supported me when I would have given in with the pain.

And with returning health there dawned within me, and grew stronger and

stronger, a feeling which I had never known before. The gambler is a

stranger to all the ordinary emotions of humanity, so that till then I

had no knowledge of love, and the faithful devotion of a wife. The debt

which my ungrateful heart owed to my wife burned in the depths of my

soul, as well as the sense of the wickedness of the occupation to which

I had sacrificed her. Like torturing spirits of vengeance appeared to

me all those whose happiness, whose very existence, I had ruined,

reproaching me, in hoarse and hollow voices, with the guilt and crime

of which _I_ had planted the germs. None but my wife could dispel the

nameless sorrow, the terror, which then took possession of me. I made a

solemn vow that I would never touch a card again. I tore myself away.

I burst the bonds which had held me. I withstood the enticements of

my croupiers, who could not get on when my luck was gone from the

enterprise. I had bought a small country house near Rome, and there I

fled with my wife as soon as I had recovered. Alas! for only one single

year was it that I was vouchsafed a peace, a happiness, a contentment,

such as I had never dreamt of. My wife bore me a daughter, and died a

few weeks afterwards. I was in despair. I accused heaven, and then

turned round and cursed myself and my sinful career, punished in this

way by the eternal power, by taking my wife from me, who saved me from

destruction--the only creature on earth who gave me comfort and hope.

Like the criminal whom the dreadfulness of solitude terrifies, I fled

from my country place to Paris. Angela blossomed up, the lovely

counterpart of her mother. My whole heart hung upon her. For her sake I

made it my business not only to keep a considerable fortune together,

but to increase it. It is true that I lent money at high rates of

interest. But it is a shameful calumny when I am accused of being a

fraudulent usurer. Who are my accusers? Light-minded creatures, who

torture and tease me till I lend them money, which they waste and

squander as if it were of no value, and then are furious when I get it

back from them with infallible strictness--the money which is not mine

but my daughter's, whose steward I consider myself to be. Not long ago

I rescued a young man from ruin and disgrace by lending him a

considerable sum. I knew he was very poor, and I said nothing about

repayment till I knew he had succeeded to a fortune. Then I asked him

to pay me. Would you credit it, Chevalier, this light-minded scoundrel,

who was indebted to me for his very existence, wanted to deny his

liability, and, when the law obliged him to pay me, he called me a vile

skinflint. I could tell you of plenty similar cases, which have made me

hard and unfeeling when I have been met with ingratitude and baseness.

More than that, I could tell you of many bitter tears which I have

wiped away, of many a prayer which has gone up to heaven for me and my

Angela; but you would look upon that as boasting, and besides, as you

are a gambler, you would care nothing about it. I hoped and believed

that the eternal power was appeased. All delusion, for Satan was freely

empowered to blind and deceive me in a more terrible manner than ever.

I heard of your luck, Chevalier. Every day I was told of this one and

the other having beggared himself at your banque. Then it came to me

that I was destined to pit my luck, which had never failed me, against

yours--that I was destined to put an end to your career. And this idea,

which nothing but madness of the most extraordinary kind could have

suggested to me, left me no further peace or rest. Thus I came to your

banque. Thus my terrible folly did not leave me until my fortune--no,

my Angela's fortune--was all yours. But you will let my daughter take

her clothes away with her, will you not?'

"'I have nothing to do with your daughter's clothes,' answered the

Chevalier; 'and you may take away the beds and the ordinary household

things for cooking and so forth. What do I care for rubbish of that

sort? But take care that nothing of any value of that which is now my

property goes away amongst them.'

"Old Vertua stared speechlessly at the Chevalier for a few seconds,

then a stream of tears burst from his eyes. Like a man annihilated, all

sorrow and despair, he sank down before the Chevalier with hands

uplifted.

"'Have you any human feeling left in your heart?' he cried. 'Have some

mercy! Remember it is not me whom you are dashing into ruin and misery,

but my unoffending angel child--my Angela! Oh, have mercy upon her!

Lend her the twentieth part of the fortune you have robbed her of. I

know you will allow yourself to be implored. Oh! Angela, my daughter!'

"And the old man moaned, sobbed, and called out the name of his child

in heart-breaking tones.

"'I really don't think I can stand much more of this stage business of

yours,' the Chevalier said indifferently, and in a bored manner. But

the door opened, and a girl in a white night dress, with her hair

undone, and death in her face, rushed up to old Vertua, raised

him, took him in her arms, and cried, 'Oh, father, I have heard it

all--I know it all! Have you lost everything?--everything? You have

still your Angela. What would be the use of money if you had not Angela

to take care of you. Oh, father! don't humiliate yourself more before

this despicable, inhuman creature. It is not we, it is he who is poor

and miserable in all his despicable riches, for he stands there in the

most gruesome, comfortless loneliness. There is not one loving heart in

the wide world to cling to his breast, to open to him when he is like

to despair of life--of himself. Come, father, away from this house with

me; let us go as quickly as we can, that the horrible creature may not

gloat over our sorrow.'

"Vertua sank half senseless into a chair, whilst Angela knelt down

before him, took his hands, kissed them and stroked them, and told

over, with childlike prolixity, all the accomplishments and

acquirements which she possessed, with which she would be able to

support him comfortably, imploring him with the warmest tears to have

no fear, inasmuch as life would, for the first time in her experience,

begin to possess a real value and delightsomeness for her when--not for

the enjoying of it, but for her father--she should stitch, sew, sing,

play the guitar.

"What obdurate sinner could have remained indifferent at the sight of

Angela beaming in the fulness of her heavenly beauty, comforting her

old father with sweet, delicious words, the deepest affection, and the

most childlike purity and goodness streaming from the depths of her

heart?

"Things were very different with the Chevalier. An entire pandemonium

of torture and pangs of conscience awoke within him. Angela seemed to

him to be the punishing angel of God, before whose shining glory the

cloud-shroud of sinful deception which had surrounded him vanished

away, so that with terror he clearly saw himself in all his repulsive

nakedness.

"And through the midst of those hell-flames, which were consuming and

raging in his heart, there came piercing a heavenly, pure beam of

radiance, whose light was the sweetest bliss and the very joy of

heaven, though the brightness of this ray had the effect of rendering

the inexpressible torture more terrible.

"The Chevalier had never known love before; and the instant he saw

Angela he was seized by the most passionate affection for her, and, at

the same time, with the destroying pain of complete hopelessness, for

surely there could be no hope for one who had appeared to her in the

light in which he had.

"He longed to say something, but his tongue seemed to be paralysed. At

length he so far mastered himself as to say, stammering, and in a

trembling voice, 'Signor Vertua, listen. I have not won anything from

you--nothing of the kind. There is my strong box; take it, it is yours.

Yes; and I have to pay you more than that. I am in your debt. Take it,

take it!'

"'Oh, my girl!' cried Vertua. But Angela went up to the Chevalier,

beamed a proud look upon him, and said, gravely and calmly,

'Learn, Chevalier, that there are higher things than money and

possessions--things which you have no knowledge of--which, while

filling our souls with the happiness of heaven, make us spurn your

gifts with compassion and contempt. Keep the mammon upon which lies the

curse which pursues you, heartless, accursed gambler.'

"'Yes!' cried the Chevalier wildly; 'cursed, cursed in verity may I be,

if ever this hand of mine touches a card again. And if you repel me,

Angela, it will be you who will bring inevitable destruction upon me.

Oh, you don't understand me. You must think me mad; but you will know

it all when I lie before you with my skull shivered into fragments.

Angela, it is life or death with me. Adieu!'

"With this he dashed away in utter desperation. Vertua thoroughly

understood him; he saw what had been passing in his heart, and tried to

make the lovely Angela comprehend how certain eventualities might arise

which would render it necessary to accept the Chevalier's offers.

Angela was afraid to allow herself to understand her father; she did

not think it would ever be possible to regard the Chevalier otherwise

than with contempt; but that mysterious chain of events which often

forms itself within the profundities of the human heart, without our

cognisance, brought to pass that which seemed unimagined--undreamt of.

"The Chevalier felt as if suddenly awakened from a horrible dream. He

saw himself standing on the brink of the abyss of hell, stretching his

arms out in vain to the shining form of light which had appeared to

him, not to save him, but to tell him of his damnation.

"To the surprise of all Paris his banque opened no more, and he himself

was no more seen, so that the most marvellous tales concerning him

became current, each of them a greater falsehood than the others. He

avoided all society; his love took the form of the profoundest, most

unconquerable melancholy. One day he met old Vertua and his daughter in

one of the lonely, shady walks of the garden at Malmaison.

"Angela, who had believed she would never be able to look upon the

Chevalier again but with horror and contempt, felt strangely moved when

she saw him so pale and distressed, scarce able to lift his eyes to her

in the excess of his reverence for her. She knew that, since that

eventful night, he had given play up entirely, and completely altered

his mode of life, and that she--she alone--was the cause of this. She

had saved him from destruction; could anything flatter a woman more?

"When old Vertua had exchanged the ordinary civilities with him, she

spoke to him in a tone of gentle pity, saying, 'What is the matter,

Chevalier? You look ill and unhappy. You ought to go and consult a

doctor.'

"We can understand that her words filled him with comfort and hope. He

was a different man in a moment. He lifted his head, and managed to

talk once more in the manner which, when it welled from his very heart

in former days, used to attract and endear him to all who knew him.

Vertua reminded him that he had not come to take possession of the

house he had won.

"'Very well, I will come,' he answered, with an inspiration breaking

upon him. 'I will come to-morrow; but we must discuss all the

conditions at proper length and leisure, even if it should take

months.'

"'So be it, Chevalier,' said Vertua, with a smile. 'Perhaps we may come

to discuss matters which we do not quite see into at present.'

"The Chevalier, inwardly comforted, resumed all the charm of manner and

all the delightful qualities which had distinguished him before he was

carried away by his devouring passion. His visits at Vertua's became

more and more frequent, and Angela grew more and more disposed towards

the man whose guardian angel she had been, till at last she believed

she loved him with all her heart, and promised him her hand, to the

great joy of old Vertua, who saw in this the settlement of his losses.

"One day Angela, now the happy betrothed of the Chevalier Menars, was

sitting at a window, lost in all the sweet dreams and happy fancies

which young ladies in her position are believed to be wont to

entertain, when a regiment of Jaegers came marching along, with

trumpets sounding bravely, on their way to join in the Spanish

campaign. She was looking with pitiful sympathy at the men thus going

to face death in this war, when a very young officer, who was reining

his horse quickly to one side, looked up at her, and she fell back

fainting in her seat.

"Alas! This young Jaeger, marching off to face death in the field, was

no other than young Duvernet, the son of a neighbour, with whom she had

grown up, who had been nearly daily in the house, and had only kept out

of the way since the Chevalier had made his appearance. In the look of

bitter reproach which the lad cast at her--and the bitterness of death

itself was in it--she now, for the first time, read not only how

unspeakably he loved her, but how boundlessly she loved him, without

having been aware, whilst dazzled by the Chevalier's brilliance. Now.

for the first time, she understood Duvernet's anxious sighs?--his

silent, unassuming, unobtrusive attentions; now, and now only, she read

her own embarrassed heart--what moved her disquiet breast when Duvernet

came, when she heard his voice.

"'Too late! he is lost to me!' cried the voice in her heart. She had

the resolution to beat down and conquer the hopeless pain which would

have torn her heart; and just because she had this resolution she was

successful.

"The Chevalier was too observant not to see that something had been

occurring to disturb her; but, tenderly enough, he refrained from

trying to unriddle a mystery which she thought herself bound to conceal

from him. He contented himself, by way of clearing anything hostile out

of the path, with hastening on the wedding. The arrangements connected

with it he ordered with such admirable consideration and such delicate

tact, that from his very care in this respect for her state of mind,

she could not but form a higher opinion of his amiability than even

before.

"His conduct to her was marked with such observance of the most

trifling of her wishes, with the sincere courtesy which springs from

the truest and purest affection, that the remembrance of Duvernet

naturally faded more and more from her memory. So that the first

cloud-shadow which fell upon the brightness of their life was the

illness and death of old Vertua.

"Since the night when he had lost all he possessed to the Chevalier, he

had never touched a card. But in the closing moments of his life all

his faculties seemed to be engrossed with the game. Whilst the priest,

who had come to administer the consolations of the Church to him on his

departure from this life, spoke to him of spiritual things, he lay with

closed eyes, murmuring between his teeth, '_Perd!_--_Gagne_,' and

making, with hands quivering in the spasms of death, the motions of

dealing and playing out cards. Angela and the Chevalier, bending over

him, called him by the tenderest names. He did not seem to hear them,

or to know they were there. With a faint sigh of '_Gagne!_' he gave up

the ghost.

"In her deep sorrow, Angela could not help an eery shudder at the

manner of his departure. The remembrance of that night, when she had

first seen the Chevalier as the most hardened reprobate of a gambler,

came vividly to her mind, and the thought came into her soul that he

might some day throw off his angel's mask and, jeering at her in his

pristine devilishness, begin his old life again.

"This fearful presentiment was to come but too true.

"Deeply shocked as the Chevalier was at the notion of old Francesco

Vertua's having gone into the next world heedless of the consolations

of the Church, and unable to leave off thinking of the former sinful

life, still, somehow--he could not tell why--it brought the memory of

the game back to his mind again, so that every night in his dreams he

was presiding at the banque once more, heaping up fresh treasures.

"Since, Angela, impressed by the remembrance how her husband had

appeared to her at first, found it impossible to maintain the trustful

affection of her earlier wedded days, mistrust, at the same time, came

into his soul of her, and he attributed her embarrassment to that

secret which at once disturbed her peace, and remained unrevealed to

him. This suspicion produced in him misery and annoyance, which he

expressed in utterances which pained Angela. By a natural psychical

reflex action, the remembrance of the unfortunate Duvernet revived in

her mind, and with it the miserable sense that the love which had

blossomed forth in her young heart was lost and bidden adieu to for

ever. The discord grew greater and greater, till it reached such a

pitch that the Chevalier came to the conclusion that the life of

retirement which he was leading was a complete mistake, and longed with

all his heart to be out into the world again.

"In fact, his evil star began to get into the ascendant. And that which

inward dissatisfaction commenced, was completed by a wicked fellow who

had formerly been a croupier at his banque, and who, by various crafty

speeches, brought matters to such a point that the Chevalier came to

consider his present mode of existence childish and ridiculous, and

could not comprehend how, for the sake of a woman, he should be

abandoning a life which appeared to him the only one worth living.

"So very soon the Chevalier's banque, with its heaps of gold, was going

on again more brilliantly than ever. His luck had not forsaken him;

victim after victim fell a prey, and money was amassed. But Angela's

happiness was a thing of the past--destroyed, in a terrible fashion,

like a brief, bright dream. The Chevalier treated her with

indifference--more than that, with contempt. Often she did not see him

for weeks and months. An old house-steward looked after the household

matters; the servants were changed according to the Chevalier's

caprice; so that Angela, a stranger in her own home, found no comfort

anywhere. Often, in sleepless nights, when she heard the Chevalier's

carriage draw up at the door, the heavy money-chest brought up the

stairs, and he himself come up, cursing and swearing in monosyllables,

and shut the door of his distant room with a bang, a torrent of tears

would burst from her eyes, and in the deepest, most heartbreaking tones

of misery, she would call a hundred times on the name Duvernet, and

implore the Eternal Power to make an end of her wretched existence.

"One night a young gentleman of good family, after losing all he

possessed at the Chevalier's banque, sent a bullet through his head in

the gaming-house--and indeed in the very room where the banque was

established--so that the blood and brains besprinkled the players, who

scattered out of the way in alarm. The only person unaffected by this

was the Chevalier, who, when every one was about to leave the room,

asked whether it was according to rule and custom to leave the game

because a young fool had chosen to commit an absurdity, before the

regular time for closing.

"This incident excited much comment. The most experienced, most

hardened gamblers were indignant at the Chevalier's unexampled

behaviour. Every one took part against him. The police ordered his

banque to be closed. He was accused of unfair play; and his

extraordinary luck spoke for the truth of this accusation. He was

unable to clear himself, and the fine inflicted on him ran away with a

considerable slice of his fortune. Finding himself robbed of his good

name, and despised by all, he betook himself back to the arms of the

wife whom he had ill-treated, who gladly welcomed him in his

repentance. The recollection that her father, too, had renounced the

miserable life of a gambler, allowed a gleam of hope to dawn upon her

mind that perhaps, as the Chevalier was advancing somewhat in years,

his alteration of life might be lasting.

"He left Paris with her, and they went to Genoa, her birth-place. Here,

at first, he lived a sedate life; but it was impossible to re-establish

the old, peaceful, domestic existence with Angola which his evil angel

had destroyed. Very soon his inward restlessness and disquiet awoke

and drove him out, away from his house, in unsettled restlessness. His

ill-repute had followed him from Paris. He dared not establish a

banque, though he felt impelled to do so with the most irresistible

force.

"About this time a French Colonel, obliged, by serious wounds, to

retire from active service, was keeping the most important banque in

Genoa. The Chevalier went to this banque, with envy and deep hatred in

his heart, expecting his usual luck to stand by him soon, so that he

might be the ruin of this rival. The Colonel hailed the Chevalier with

a merry humour (not at other times characteristic of him), saying that

now, when the Chevalier de Menars had appeared in the field, the game

was worth winning at last, since there was something in the nature of a

real contest to give some interest to the issues.

"And, in fact, during the first few deals, the cards fell to the

Chevalier with just his old luck. But when, trusting to his invincible

fortune, he at last called out: 'Va, Banque!' he lost a very

considerable sum of money at one stroke.

"The Colonel was, ordinarily, completely cool and impassive, whether

lucky or unlucky; but, this time, he drew in his winnings with the

liveliest marks of the utmost delight.

"From that moment luck turned away from the Chevalier, utterly and

completely. He played every night, and lost every night, till he had

nothing left but two or three thousand ducats, in paper.

"He had been on foot all day, converting this paper into cash, and only

went home to his house late in the evening. When night was coming on,

he was going out with his last gold coins in his pocket, when Angela

came to him (suspecting the truth, no doubt), threw herself at his feet

with a stream of tears, imploring him, by the Virgin and all the

saints, to abandon his evil courses, and not leave her in need and

poverty.

"The Chevalier raised her, pressed her, with painful fervour, to his

heart, and said, in a hollow voice: 'Angela!--my sweet, beloved

Angela!--there is no help for it. I must do it. I cannot help it. But

to-morrow--to-morrow, all your cares will be over. For, by the Eternal

Destiny which is above us, I swear that I play this night for the very

last time. Do not distress yourself, my darling child. Go to sleep!

Dream of happy days!--of a better life which is coming speedily. That

will bring me luck.'

"He kissed her, and ran off, not to be stopped.

"In two deals he had lost everything--all that he possessed. He

remained standing motionless near the Colonel, staring, in a dazed

manner, at the gaming table.

"'Won't you go on, Chevalier?' asked the Colonel, shuffling the cards

for the next deal.

"'I have lost my all,' the Chevalier answered, powerfully constraining

himself to be calm.

"'Do you mean to say you have nothing left?' the Colonel asked at the

next deal.

"'I am a beggar,' the Chevalier cried, in a voice quivering with fury

and pain, as he continued to stare at the gaming table. He did not

notice that those who were staking were getting more and more the

better of the banquier.

"The Colonel calmly continued the game.

"As he shuffled the cards for the third deal, he said to the Chevalier

(without looking on him), 'You have a beautiful wife, you know!'

"'What do you mean?' cried the Chevalier angrily. The Colonel turned

away a little without answering him.

"'Ten thousand ducats--or Angela!' he said, half averting his face, as

the cards were being cut.

"'You are out of your senses!' cried the Chevalier, who had, however,

now regained his composure a good deal, and began to observe that the

Colonel was losing at every deal.

"'Twenty thousand ducats, or Angela!' the Colonel said almost in a

whisper, as he paused for a moment during the shuffling of the cards.

The Chevalier said not a word. The Colonel played again, and nearly all

the cards were in favour of the players--against him.

"'Done!' the Chevalier whispered in the Colonel's ear when the next

deal began; and he threw the Queen on the table.

"The Queen lost.

"The Chevalier drew back, grinding his teeth, and leaned at the window

with despair and death in his white face.

"The game ended, and, with a jeering 'Well! what next?' the Colonel

came up to the Chevalier.

"'Oh, God!' cried the Chevalier, quite beside himself. 'You have made

me a beggar, but you must be a madman if you think you have won my

wife! Are we in the West Indies? Is my wife a slave--a chattel in her

husband's power, so that he can sell her, or gamble her away at faro?

It is true, of course, that you would have had to pay me twenty

thousand ducats if the Queen had won, so that I have lost the right to

make any objection if my wife chooses to leave me and go away with you.

Come home with me, and despair when my wife repulses with horror the

man whom she would have to follow as a dishonoured mistress.'

"'Despair yourself, Chevalier!' said the Colonel with a scornful laugh,

'when Angela turns from you with horror---from you, the miserable

wretch who has brought her to beggary--and throws herself into my arms

with eager rapture; despair yourself, when you find that the Church's

benediction unites us--that fate crowns our most eager desires. You say

I must be mad!--Ha, ha! All I wanted was to gain power of veto. I knew

of a certainty that your wife belonged to me. Ho, ho, Chevalier! Let me

tell you that your wife loves me--me--unutterably, to my certain

knowledge. Let me tell you that I am that Duvernet, the neighbour's

son, brought up with Angela, united to her in the warmest affection,

which you, with your devilish artifices, dispelled. Alas! it was not

till I had to depart on field service that Angela knew what I was to

her. I know the whole matter. It was too late then. But the dark

spirit told me that I should succeed in ruining you at play--that was

why I devoted myself to it and followed you to Genoa. And I have done

it!--come now to your wife!'

"The Chevalier stood like one annihilated, stricken by a thousand

burning lightnings. The mystery so long sealed to him was explained.

Now, for the first time, he saw the full extent of the misfortunes

which he had brought upon poor Angela.

"'My wife shall make her decision,' he said in a hollow tone, and

followed the Colonel, who stormed away.

"When they came to the house, and the Colonel seized the handle of

Angela's door, the Chevalier thrust him back, saying, 'My wife is in a

sweet sleep; would you awaken her?'

"'Ha!' said the Colonel. 'Has Angela ever been in a sweet sleep since

you brought nameless misery upon her?'

"He was about to enter the room, but the Chevalier prostrated himself

at his feet, and cried, in utter despair, 'Have some mercy! You have

made me a beggar! Leave me my wife!'

"'So lay old Vertua at _your_ feet, unfeeling monster that you were,

and could not move your stony heart. Therefore, may the vengeance of

Heaven be upon you!'

"So saying, the Colonel again turned towards Angela's room.

"The Chevalier sprang to the door, burst it open, dashed up to the bed

where his wife was lying, drew the curtains aside, cried 'Angela!

Angela!'--bent over her--took her hand--shuddered like one convulsed in

the death agony, and cried out in a terrible voice--

"'See here! What you have won from me is my wife's corpse!'

"The Colonel hurried to the bedside in terror. There was no trace of

life. Angela was dead.

"The Colonel raised his clenched hands to heaven, and rushed away with

a hollow cry. He was no more seen."

It was thus that the stranger finished his narrative, and having done

so, he went quickly away, before the Baron, much moved by it, was able

to utter any word.

A day or two afterwards the stranger was found insensible in his room,

stricken by apoplexy. He was speechless till his death, which happened

in a few hours. His papers showed that, though he was known by the name

of Baudasson, he really was none other than the unfortunate Chevalier

Menars.

The Baron recognized the warning of Heaven which had brought the

Chevalier Menars to him just when he was nearing the abyss, and he took

a solemn vow that he would resist all the temptations of the deceptive

Gambler's Fortune. Hitherto he has kept his vow.

"Would one not suppose," said Lothair, when Theodore had ended, "that

you were a man who knew all about gambling, and were great at all those

games yourself, though perhaps your conscience might now and then give

you a slap in the face? and yet I know very well that you never touch a

card."

"That is quite the case," said Theodore. "And yet I derived much

assistance, in my story, from a strange experience which I had myself

once."

"It would be the best _finale_ to your tale," said Ottmar, "to tell us

this said experience of yours."

"You know," said Theodore, "that when I was finishing my education I

lived for some time with an old uncle of mine in G----. There was a

certain friend of this uncle's who, though our ages were very

different, took a great pleasure in my society, chiefly, perhaps,

because at that time I was always filled with a brilliant vein of

humour, sometimes amounting to the mischievous. This gentleman was, I

can assure you, one of the most extraordinary characters I ever came

across. Mean in all the relationships of life, ill-tempered, grumbling,

sulky, with a great tendency to miserliness, he had the utmost

appreciation for everything in the shape of fun and amusement. To use a

French expression, he was in the highest degree _amusable_, but not in

the least _amusant_. At the same time he was excessively vain, and one

form of his vanity was that he was always dressed in the utmost

extremity of the prevailing fashion, almost to a ludicrous extent.

And there was a similar absurdity about his manner of hunting after

every species of enjoyment in the very sweat of his brow, so to

speak--striving, with a comic eagerness, to gulp down as much of it as

he possibly could grasp. I remember so well three particular instances

of this vanity and struggle for enjoyment of his that I must tell them

to you. Picture to yourselves this man, being at a place among the

hills, and invited by some people (ladies being among them), to go on a

walking expedition to see some waterfalls in the neighbourhood,

dressing himself for the occasion in a bran new silk coat, never worn

before, with beautiful shining steel buttons, and white silk stockings,

shoes with steel buckles, and his finest rings on his fingers. In the

thickest part of the pine forest which had to be passed through, a

tremendous thunderstorm came on; the rain fell in torrents, the brooks,

swollen by the rain, came rushing over the paths. You can well imagine

the state my poor friend found himself in very soon.

"It chanced that the tower of the Dominican Church at G---- was one

night struck by lightning. My friend was in raptures with the grand

fire-pillar which arose in the darkness, magically illuminating all the

country round; but he soon came to the conclusion that to get the real

picturesque effect of it in all its perfection, it would be the right

thing to go and look at it from a certain rising ground just outside

the town. So he set off as quickly as his carefulness in such matters

would permit him, not forgetting to put a packet of macaroons and a

flask of wine into certain of his pockets, or to carry a beautiful

bouquet of flowers in his hand, and a camp stool under his arm. Thus

equipped, he paced calmly out of the city gate and up on to the

eminence, where he sat himself down to enjoy the spectacle, smelling at

his bouquet, munching a macaroon, washing that down with a mouthful of

wine, in the most complete, beatific, quiescent state of enjoyment.

Really this fellow was--taking him all round----"

"Stop! stop!" cried Lothair, "you were going to tell us the adventure

of your own which helped you in writing your 'Gamester's Fortune,' and

you cannot get away from a fellow who seems to have been as ludicrous

as repulsive to every ordinarily constituted person's feelings."

"You must not blame me," said Theodore, "for lingering over this

personage who was so intimately brought into connection with my life.

But, to business!--this man whom I have been describing to you invited

me to make a trip with him to a certain watering place, and, although I

saw quite clearly that I was to play the _rôle_ of soother, calmer,

tranquilizer, and _maítre-de-plaisírs_ to him, I was quite satisfied to

make this charming excursion amongst the mountains at his expense. At

the watering-place there was some high play going on--a bank of several

thousand thalers. My companion eyed the heaps of gold with greedy

simpers, paced up and down the room, circled nearer and nearer to the

play table, dived into his pockets, brought out a Friedrich-d'or

between his finger and thumb, dropped it back again--in a word, lusted

for money. Only too glad would he have been to pocket a little haul

from that heaped-up treasure, but he had no belief in his star. At last

he put an end to this droll contest between his longings and his fears,

which brought the perspiration in drops on to his forehead, by begging

me to stake for him, to which end he put five or six Friedrichs-d'or

into my hand. However, I would have nothing to do with the arrangement

until he assured me that he had not the least belief that he would have

any luck whatever, but looked upon the sum which he staked as so much

lost cash. What happened was what I did not in the least degree expect.

To me, the unpractised, inexperienced player, fortune was propitious.

I won for my friend in a very short time something like thirty

Friedrichs-d'or, which he put in his pocket with much glee. Next

evening he wanted me to play for him again, but to this hour I cannot

explain how the idea came into my head that I should then play on my

own account. I had not had the slightest intention of playing any more,

nay, rather, I was on the very point of going away, out of the room, to

take a walk outside, when my friend came up to me with his request.

When I had plainly told him in set terms that I meant to play on my own

account (but not till then), I walked calmly up to the table and pulled

out of my little waistcoat pocket two Friedrichs-d'or, the only two

which I possessed. If fortune had been propitious to me the night

before, this time it seemed as if some Spirit of Might, at whose

command luck stood, was in covenant with me. Whatever I did, whatever I

staked upon, everything turned up in my favour---in fact, just as I

said in my story, what happened at first to Baron Siegfried happened to

me. My brain reeled! When a fresh haul of money was handed over to me I

often felt as if I were in a dream, and should be sure to wake up just

as I was pocketing my winnings. When the clock struck two the game came

to an end as usual.

"Just as I was leaving the room, an old officer took me by the

shoulder, and said, transfixing me with a grave, powerful eye:

"'Young man, if you had known what you were about, you would have

broken the banque. But if ever you do know about it, no doubt you will

go to the devil, like all the rest.' He left me, without waiting for my

answer.

"The day was breaking when I got to my room, and emptied the money out

of all my pockets on to the table. Picture to yourselves the feelings

of a mere boy, entirely dependent on his relatives, restricted to a

miserable mite of an allowance of weekly pocket-money, who suddenly, as

if at the wave of a magic wand, finds himself in possession of a sum

which is, at all events, considerable enough to appear, in his eyes, a

fortune! But, as I gazed at the heaps of coin, all my mind was suddenly

filled with an anxiety, a strange, alarmed uneasiness, which put me

into a cold perspiration. The words of the old officer came back to me,

as they had not struck me before, in the most terrible significance. I

felt as though the coin which was blinking at me there on the table was

the earnest money of a bargain whereby I had sold my soul to the powers

of darkness, so that there was no escape more for it possible, and it

was destroyed for evermore. The blossoms of my life seemed to be gnawed

upon by a hidden worm, and I sank into inconsolable despair. The

morning dawn was flaming up behind the eastern hills. I lay down in the

window-seat. I gazed, with the most intense longing, for the rising of

the sun which should drive away the darksome spirits of night; and

when the woods and plains shone forth in his golden glory, it was day

in my soul once more, and there came to me the most inspiriting sense

of a power to resist all temptation, and shield my life from that

demoniacal impulse, which was full of the power of--somehow and

somewhere--impelling it to utter destruction. I made then a most sacred

vow that I would never touch a card again, and that vow I have kept

most strictly. And the first use I made of my money was to part from my

friend, to his immense surprise, and set out on that excursion to

Dresden, Prague, and Vienna, of which I have told you."

"I can well imagine," said Sylvester, "the impression which your

unexpected, equivocal, most questionable luck must have made upon you.

It was greatly to your credit that you resisted the temptation, and

that you recognized how it was that the threatening danger lay in the

very luck itself. But, allow me to say, your own tale, the manner in

which you have, with such accuracy, characterized the real gambler in

it, must make it plain to yourself that you never had within you the

true love of gambling, and that, if you had, the courage which you

displayed would have been very difficult, perhaps impossible. Vincent,

who, I believe, knows a great deal more about such matters than the

rest of us, will agree with me here, I think."

"As for me," said Vincent, "I was scarcely attending to Theodore's

account of his luck at the faro-table, because my mind was so full of

that delicious fellow who walked about the hills in silk stockings, and

admired burning buildings as if they were so many pictures, enjoying

his wine, his macaroons, and his bouquets all the time. In fact, it was

a pleasure and satisfaction to me to see one entertaining character at

last emerging out of the dark, dreadful background of the stories of

this evening, and I should have liked to have seen him as the hero of

some comic drama."

"Ought not the mere suggestion of him to have been enough for us?"

said Lothair. "We Serapion Brethren ought always to remember that it is

our duty to set up, for each other's entertainment and refreshment,

unique characters which we may have come across in life, as a means of

refreshing us after the tales which may have strained our attention."

"A good idea," said Vincent, "and I thoroughly agree with it. Rough

sketches of that description ought to serve as studies for more

finished pictures, which whoever chooses may elaborate after his

liking. Also, they may be considered as being charitable contributions

to the general fund of Serapionish fantasy. And to show that I am in

earnest, I shall at once proceed to describe to you a very great

'Curio' of a man whom I came across in the south of Germany. One day,

in B----, I chanced to be walking in a wood near the town, when I came

upon a number of countrymen hard at work in cutting down a quantity of

thick underwood, and snipping off the branches from the trees on either

side of it. I do not know what made me inquire of them if they were

making a new road, or what. They laughed, and told me that, if I went

on my way, I should find, outside the trees, upon a little rising

ground, a little gentleman who would answer my questions, and,

accordingly, I came there upon a little elderly gentleman, of pale

complexion, in a great-coat, and with a travelling-cap on his head and

a game-bag at his back, who was gazing fixedly through a telescope in

the direction of the men who were cutting down the trees. When he saw

me he shut up his telescope in a hurry, and said, eagerly, 'You have

come through the wood, sir? Have you observed how the work is getting

on?' I told him what I had seen. 'That's right, that's right,' he said;

'I've been here ever since three in the morning, and I was beginning to

be afraid that those asses (and I pay them well, too) were leaving me

in the lurch. But I have some hopes, now, that the view will come into

sight at the expected time.' He drew out his telescope again, and gazed

through it towards the wood. After a few minutes, some large branches

came rustling down, and, as at the stroke of a magic wand, there opened

up a prospect of distant mountains, a beautiful prospect, with the

ruins of an old castle glowing in the beams of the setting sun. The

gentleman gave expression to his extreme delight and gratification in

one or two detached broken phrases; but when he had enjoyed the

prospect for a good quarter of an hour, he put away his telescope and

set off as fast as he could, without bidding me goodbye or taking the

slightest notice of me. I afterwards heard that he was the Baron von

B----, one of the most extraordinary fellows in existence, who, like

the well-known Baron Grotthus, has been on a continual walking tour for

several years, and has a mania for hunting after beautiful views. When

he arrives at a place where, to get at a view, he thinks it is

necessary to have trees cut down, or openings made in woodlands, he

spares no cost to arrange matters with the proprietors, or to employ

labourers. In fact, it is said that he once tried his utmost to have a

set of farm buildings burned down, because he thought they interfered

with the beauty of a prospect, and interrupted the view of the

distance. He did not succeed in this particular undertaking. But

whenever he did attain his object, he would gaze at his newly-arranged

view for half an hour or so, at the outside, and then set off at such a

pace that nothing could stop him, never coming back to the place

again."

The friends were of one mind in the opinion that there is no

possibility of imagining anything more marvellous or out of the common

than that which comes before us in actual life, of its own accord.

"I am wonderfully delighted," said Cyprian, "that it chances to be in

my power to add to your two oddities a third character, of whom I was

told a short time ago by a well-known violinist, whom we all of us know

very well. This third character of mine is none other than the Baron

von B----, a man who lived in Berlin about the years 1789 and 1790, and

was acknowledged to be one of the most extraordinary phenomenons ever

met with in the world of music. For the sake of greater vividness, I

will tell you the tale in the first person, as if I were the violinist

concerned in it, and I hope my worthy Serapion brother Theodore won't

take it amiss that I encroach, on this occasion, into his peculiar

province.

"At the time when the Baron was living in Berlin," the violinist said,

"I was a very young fellow, scarcely sixteen, and absorbed in the

most zealous study of my instrument, to which I was devoted with all

the powers and faculties of my body and soul. My worthy master,

Concert-Meister Haak, who was excessively strict with me, was much

content with my progress. He lauded the finish of my bowing, the

correctness of my intonation, and he allowed me to play in the

orchestra of the opera, and even in the King's chamber-concerts. On

those occasions I often heard Haak talking with young Duport, with

Ritter, and other great artists belonging to the orchestra, about the

musical evenings which Baron von B---- was in the habit of having in

his house. Such was the research and the taste connected with those

evenings that the King himself often deigned to take part in them.

Mention was made of magnificent works of the old, nearly forgotten

masters, which were nowhere else to be heard than at the Baron's, who,

as regarded music for stringed instruments, possessed, probably,

the most complete collection from the most ancient times down to

the present day, in existence. Then they spoke of the marvellous

hospitality which the Baron extended to artists, and they were all

unanimous in concluding that he was the most bright and shining star

which had ever risen in the musical horizon of Berlin.

"All this excited my curiosity, and made my teeth water; and all the

more that, during these conversations, the artists drew their heads

nearer together, and I gathered, from mysterious whispers and detached

words and phrases, that there was talk of tuition in music, of giving

of lessons. I fancied that, on Duport's face especially, there appeared

a sarcastic smile, and that they all attacked Concert-Meister Haak with

some piece of chaff, and that he, for his part, only feebly defending

himself, could scarcely suppress a smile, until at last, turning

quickly away, and taking up his violin to tune, he cried out, 'All the

same, he is a first-rate fellow!'

"All this was more than I could withstand, and although I was told, in

a pretty decided manner, to mind my own business, I begged Haak to

allow me, if in any manner possible, to go with him to the Baron's and

play in his concerts.

"Haak surveyed me with great eyes, and I feared that a little

thunderstorm was going to burst out upon me. But his seriousness melted

into a strange smile, and he said:

"'Well, well; perhaps you're right. There's a great deal to be picked

up at the Baron's. I'll talk to him about you, and I think it very

likely that he will accord you _les entrées_. He is very much

interested in young musicians.'

"A short time afterwards, I had been playing some very difficult duetts

with Haak. As he laid his fiddle down, he said, 'Now, Carl, put your

Sunday coat on to-night, and your silk stockings. We will go together

to the Baron's. There won't be many there, and it will be a good

opportunity to introduce you to him.'

"My heart throbbed with delight, for I expected to meet with things

unheard-of and extraordinary, though I did not know why this was my

expectation.

"We arrived there. The Baron, a rather small gentleman, advanced in

age, wearing an old Frankish embroidered gala dress, came to meet us as

we entered the room, and shook my master cordially by the hand. Never

had I felt, at the sight of a man of rank, more sincere reverence, a

more infelt, sincere, pleasant attraction. His face expressed the most

genuine kindliness, whilst from his eyes flashed that darksome fire

which so often indicates the artist who is, in verity, penetrated by

his art. All that diffidence with which I, as an inexperienced

neophyte, would otherwise have had to contend, fled from me instantly.

"'How are you, my dear Haak?' the Baron said. 'How are you getting on?

Have you been having a right good study at my concerto? Good, good; we

shall hear tomorrow. Oh, I suppose this is the young virtuoso you were

telling me about?'

"I cast my eyes down bashfully. I felt that I blushed over and over

again.

"Haak mentioned my name, praised my natural talent, and lauded the

rapid progress which I had made in a short time.

"'And so you have chosen the violin as your instrument,' said the

Baron. 'Have you considered, my son, that the violin is the most

difficult of all instruments ever invented, and that it is one which,

whilst it seems, in its extreme simplicity, to comprehend in itself the

most luxuriant richness of music, is, in reality, an extraordinary

mystery, which only discloses itself to a rare few, specially organized

by nature to comprehend it? Do you know of a certainty, does your

spirit tell you with distinctness, that you will be the master of that

marvellous mystery? Many a one has thought this, and has remained a

miserable bungler all his days. I should not wish, my son, that you

should swell the ranks of those wretched creatures. However, at all

events, you can play me something, and then I will tell you what you

are like, what state you are in as regards this matter, and you will

follow my counsel. Perhaps it is with you as it was with Carl Staunitz,

who thought he was going to turn out a marvellous virtuoso. When I

opened his eyes, he threw his fiddle behind the stove, and took to the

Tenor and Viol d'Amour, and a very good job he made of them. On them he

could stamp about with those broad stretching fingers of his, and play

quite fairly well. But, however, just now I want to hear _you_, my

little son.'

"This first somewhat extraordinary speech of the Baron's to me was

calculated to render me somewhat anxious and abashed. What he said went

deep into my soul, and I felt, not without inward sorrow, that in

devoting my life to the most difficult of all instruments I had,

perhaps undertaken a task beyond my powers.

"Just then, four of the artists then present sat down to play the last

three quartettes of Haydn, which had just appeared in print. My master

took his violin out of its case; but scarcely had he passed his bow

over the strings, in tuning, when the Baron, stopping his ears with

both hands, cried out, like a man possessed, 'Haak, Haak, tell me, for

God's sake! how can you annihilate all your skill in playing by making

use of a miserable screaking, caterwauling fiddle like that?'

"Now it happened that my master's violin was one of the most splendid

and glorious ever to be met with. It was a genuine Antonio Stradivari,

and nothing could enrage him more than when any one failed to render

due homage to this darling of his. However, knowing pretty well what

was going to happen, he put it back into its case with a smile.

"Just as he was taking the key out of the lock of his fiddle-case, the

Baron, who had left the room for a moment, came in, bearing in both

arms (as if it had been a babe going to be baptized) a violin-case,

covered with scarlet velvet, and bound with gold cords.

"'I wish to do you an honour, Haak,' he said; 'tonight you shall play

on my oldest, most precious violin. This is a genuine Granuelo. Your

Stradivarius, his pupil, is only a bungler in comparison with him.

Tartini would never put his fingers on any violin but a Granuelo. So

please to collect yourself, and pull yourself together, so that the

Granuelo may be pleased to allow itself to unfold all the gloriousness

which dwells within it.'

"The Baron opened the violin-case, and I beheld an instrument whose

build bore witness to its immense antiquity. Beside it lay a most

marvellous-looking bow, whose exaggerated curvature seemed to indicate

rather that it was intended for shooting arrows from than for bringing

tone out of violin strings. With solemn carefulness the Baron took the

instrument out of its case and handed it to my master, who received it

with equal solemnity.

"'I'm not going to give you the bow,' said the Baron, tapping my master

on the shoulder with a pleasant smile, 'you haven't the slightest idea

how to manage it; and that is why you will never, in all your life,

attain to a proper style of bowing.

"'This was the sort of bow,' continued the Baron, taking it from the

case, and contemplating it with a gleaming glance of inspiration,

'which the grand, immortal Tartini made use of; and now that he is

gone there are only two of his pupils left in the whole wide world who

were fortunate enough to possess themselves of the secret of his

magnificent, marrowy, toneful manner of bowing, which affects the whole

being of people, and can only be accomplished with a bow of this kind.

One of those pupils is Narbini, who is now an old man of seventy,

capable only of inward music; and the other, as I think, gentlemen, you

are aware, is myself. Consequently, I am now the sole individual in

whom the true art of violin-playing survives; and my zealous endeavours

will, I trust and believe, not fail to perpetuate that art which found

its creator in Tartini. However, let us set to work, gentlemen.'

"The Haydn quartettes were then played through, and with a degree of

perfection which, it need not be said, left nothing to be desired. The

Baron sat with closed eyes, swaying backwards and forwards;

occasionally he would get up from his chair, go closer to the players,

peer at the music with wrinkled brow, and then go very gently back to

his seat, lean his head on his hand, sigh, groan--

"'Stop, stop!' he cried suddenly at a melodious passage in one of the

adagios, 'by all the gods! that was Tartini-ish melody, or I know

nothing about it. Play it again, please.'

"And the masters, smiling, repeated the passage, with a more sostenuto

and cantabile effect of bowing, while the Baron wept and sobbed like a

child.

"When the quartettes were ended, the Baron said, 'A heavenly fellow,

this Haydn; he knows how to touch the heart; but he has not an idea of

writing for the violin. Perhaps he does not wish to do it; for if he

did, and wrote in the only true manner, as Tartini did, you would never

be able to play it.'

"It was now my turn to play some variations which Haak had written for

me.

"The Baron stood close behind me, looking at the notes. You may imagine

the agitation with which I commenced, having this severe critic at my

elbow. Presently, however, a stirring allegro movement carried me away.

I forgot all about the Baron, and managed to move about with all

freedom within the sphere of skill and power which stood then at my

command.

"When I had finished, the Baron patted me on the shoulder, and said,

'You may stick to the violin, my son; but as yet you have not an idea

of bowing or expression, probably because, up to this time, you haven't

had a proper master.'

"We then sat down to table, in another room, where there was a repast

laid out and served, which, especially as regarded the rare and

marvellous wines, was to be characterized as very extravagant. The

musicians dipped deeply into everything set before them. The talk,

which waxed more and more animated, was almost entirely on the subject

of music. The Baron emitted complete treasures of the most marvellous

information. His opinions and views, most keen and penetrating, proved

him to be not only the most instructed of connoisseurs, but also the

most accomplished, talented, and tasteful of artists. What was

specially striking to me was a sort of portrait gallery of violinists

which he went through to us in description. So much of it as I remember

I will tell you.

"'Corelli,' said the Baron, 'was the first to break out the path. His

compositions can only be played in the real Tartini manner, and that is

sufficient to prove how well he knew the true art of violin-playing.

Pugnani is a passable player. He has tone, and plenty of brains, but,

although he has a tolerable amount of appogiamento, his bowing is too

feeble altogether. What have not people told me of Geminiani! and yet,

when I heard him last, some thirty years ago in Paris, he played like a

somnambulist striding about in a dream, and one felt as if one were in

a dream one's self. It was all mere tempo rubato; no sort of style or

delivery. That infernal tempo rubato is the ruin of the very best

players; they neglect their bowing over it. I played him my sonatas; he

saw his error, and asked me to give him some lessons, which I was very

glad to do. But he was too far sunk into his old method. He had grown

too old in it--he was ninety-one. May God forgive Giardini, and not

punish him for it in eternity; but he it was who first ate the apple of

the tree of knowledge, and brought sin upon all subsequent players. He

was the first of your tremolandoists and flourishers. All he thinks

about is his left hand, and those fingers of his that have the power of

jumping hither and thither. He has no idea of the important fact that

it is in the _right_ hand that the soul of melody lies--that from every

throb of its pulses stream forth the powers that awaken the feelings of

the heart. Oh! that every one of those "flourishers" had a stout old

Jomelli at his elbow to rouse him out of his craziness by a good sound

box on the ear--as Jomelli actually did--when Giardini, in his

presence, spoilt a glorious passage of melody by jumps, trills, and

"mordenti." Lulli, too, conducts himself in a preposterous way. He is

one of your damnable perpetrators of jumps. An adagio he can't play,

and his sole quality is that for which ignoramuses, without sense or

understanding, admire him with their stupid mouths agape. I say it

again: with Narbini and me will die the true art of the violinist.

Young Viotti is a fine fellow, full of promise. He is indebted to me

for what he knows, for he was a most industrious pupil of mine. But

what does it all amount to? No endurance! No patience! He wouldn't go

on studying with me. Now, Kreutzer I still hope to get hold of and make

something of. He has availed himself assiduously of my lessons, and

will again, when I get back to Paris. That concerto of mine which you

are studying, Haak, he played not at all badly a short time since. But

he hasn't the hand, yet, to wield my bow. Giarnovichi shall never cross

my doorstep again. There's a stupid coxcomb for you! A fellow who has

the effrontery to turn up his nose at the grand Tartini--master of all

masters--and despises my lessons. What I should like to know is, what

that boy Rhode will turn out after he has had lessons from me? He

promises well, and I have an idea that he will master my bow.'

"The Baron turned to me, saying, 'He is about your age, little son, but

of a more serious, deep-thoughted nature. You appear to me--don't take

it ill if I say so--to be a little bit of a--well, I mean, you lack

purpose. However, no matter. Now you, dear Haak, I have great hopes of.

Since I have been teaching you you have become quite another man. Keep

up your unresting zeal and industry. Never waste a single hour. You

know that is what distresses me.'

"I was turned to stone with amazement and admiration at what I heard. I

could not wait the necessary time to ask the concert-meister if it was

all true---if the Baron was, really, the greatest violinist of the

day--if he, my master himself, did actually take lessons from him.

"'Undoubtedly,' Haak said, 'he had no hesitation in accepting the

profitable instruction which the Baron placed at his disposal; and he

told me that I should do well if I went, some morning, to him myself,

and asked him to let me have some lessons from him too.'

"To all the questions which I then put to him concerning the Baron and

his artistic talent, Haak would give me no direct reply, but kept on

telling me that I ought to do as he advised me, and I should then find

out all about it myself.

"The peculiar smile which passed over Haak's face as he said this did

not escape me. I did not understand the meaning of it, and it excited

my curiosity to the highest point.

"When I bashfully made my request to the Baron, assuring him that the

most unbounded zeal, the most glowing enthusiasm for my art inspired

me, he looked at me seriously and fixedly. But soon his face put on

an expression of the most benevolent kindliness. 'Little son! little

son!' he said, 'that you have betaken yourself to me--the only real

violin-player now living--proves that you possess the true artistic

spirit, and that the ideal of the genuine violin-player has come into

existence within you. I should be delighted to give you lessons; but

the time--the time! where to find it? Haak occupies me a great deal,

and then I have got this young man Durand here just now, he wants to be

heard in public, and knows that he need not try that till he has had a

good course of lessons from me. However, wait a moment, between

breakfast and lunch, or at lunch time--yes. I have still an hour at

liberty then. Little son, come to me at twelve exactly every day, and I

will fiddle with you for an hour until one; then Durand comes.'

"You can imagine how I hastened, with a throbbing heart, to the Baron's

the next forenoon at the appointed hour.

"He would not let me play a single note on my own violin, which I had

brought with me, but placed in my hands a very old instrument by

Antonio Amati. Never had I had any experience of a violin like this.

The celestial tone which streamed from its strings altogether inspired

me. I let myself go, and abandoned myself to a stream of ingenious

'passages,' suffering the river of music to surge and swell, higher and

higher, in mighty waves and billows of sound, and then die down and

expire in murmuring whispers. My own belief is that I was playing

exceedingly well; much better than I often did afterwards.

"When I had done, the Baron shook his head impatiently, and said: 'My

little son! my little son! you must forget all that. In the first

place, you hold your bow most abominably,' and he showed to me,

practically, how the bow ought to be held, according to the manner of

Tartini. I thought I should never be able to bring out a single tone

whilst so holding it; but great was my astonishment when I found that,

on repeating my 'passages' at the Baron's desire, the amazing advantage

of holding the bow as he told me to hold it was strikingly manifest,

after two or three seconds.

"'Good!' said the Baron. 'Little son, let us begin the lesson. Commence

upon the note G, above the line, and hold out that note as long as you

can possibly hold it. Economize your bow; make the very utmost of it

that you possibly can. What the breath is to the singer, the bow is to

the violinist.'

"I did as I was directed, and was greatly delighted to find that, in

this manner of dealing with matters, I was enabled to bring out a tone

of exceptional powerfulness; to swell it out to a marvellous

fortissimo, and make it die down to a very soft pianissimo, with an

excessively long stroke of the bow.

"'You see, do you not, little son?' cried the Baron. 'You can play all

kinds of "passages," jumps, and new-fangled nonsense of that sort, but

you can't properly sustain a note as it ought to be done.'

"He took the instrument from my hands, and laid the bow across the

strings, near the bridge--and the simple truth is, that words

completely fail me to describe to you what then came to pass.

"Laying that trembling bow of his close to the bridge, he went sliding

with it up and down on the strings, as it quivered in his hands,

jarringly, whistlingly, squeakingly, mewingly; the tone he produced was

to be likened to that of some old woman, with spectacles on nose,

vainly attempting to hit the tune of a hymn.

"And all the time he raised enraptured eyes to heaven, like a man

lost in the most celestial blissfulness; and when at length he left

off scraping with his bow up and down between the bridge and the

finger-board, and laid the violin down, his eyes were shining, and he

said, in deep emotion: 'That is tone! that is tone!'

"I felt in a most extraordinary condition: although the inward impulse

to laugh was present with me, it was killed by the aspect of that

venerable man, glorified by his inspiration. At the same time the whole

affair had a most eery effect upon me, and I felt very much affected by

it, and could not utter a syllable.

"'Don't you find, little son,' asked the Baron, 'that that goes to your

heart? Had you ever any idea that such magic could be conjured out of

that little thing there, with its four simple strings? Well, well! take

a glass of wine, little son.' He poured me out a glass of Madeira. I

had to drink it, and also to take some of the pastry and cakes which

were upon the table. Just then the clock struck one.

"'This will have to do for to-day,' said the Baron. 'Go, go, little

son! Here, here! put that in your pocket.'

"And he placed in my hand a little paper packet, in which I found a

beautiful, shining ducat.

"In my amazement I ran to the concert-meister and told him all that had

happened. He, however, laughed aloud, and said: 'Now you know all about

our Baron and his violin lessons. He looks upon you as a mere beginner,

so that you only get a ducat per lesson; but as the mastership, in his

opinion, increases, so does the pay. He gives me a Louis, and I think

Durand gets a couple of ducats.'

"I could not help expressing my opinion that it was anything but an

honourable style of going to work, to mystify this kind gentleman in

such a fashion, and pocket his money into the bargain.

"'You ought to be told,' said Haak, 'that his whole enjoyment consists

in giving lessons--in the way which you now comprehend; and that if I

and the other artists were to show any symptoms of under-valuing him or

his lessons, he would proclaim to the whole artistic world, in which he

is looked upon as a most competent and valuable critic, that we were

nothing but a set of wretched scrapers; that, in fact, apart from his

craze of being a marvellous player, the Baron is a man whose vast

knowledge of music, and most cultivated judgment thereon, are matters

from which even a master can derive great benefit. So judge for

yourself whether I am to be blamed if I hold on to him, and now and

then pocket a few of his Louis. I advise you to go to him as often as

you can. Don't listen to the cracky nonsense he talks about his own

execution; but do listen to, and profit by, what this man--who is most

exceptionally versed in the musical art, and has immense and valuable

experience in it--has to say about it. It will be greatly to your

advantage to do so.'

"I took his advice; but it was often hard to repress laughter when the

Baron would tap about with his fingers upon the belly of the fiddle

instead of on the finger-board, stroking his bow diagonally over the

strings the while, and asseverating that he was playing the most

beautiful of all Tartini's solos, and that he was the only person in

the world who could play it.

"But soon he would lay the violin down, and pour forth sayings which

enriched me with the profoundest knowledge, and enflamed my heart

towards the most glorious of all arts.

"If I then played something from one of his concertos with my utmost

_verve_, and happened to interpret this or the other passage of it

better than usual, the Baron would look round with a smile of

complacence, or of pride, and say: 'The boy has to thank me for that;

me, pupil of the great Tartini!'

"Thus, you perceive, I derived both profit and pleasure from the

Baron's lessons; and from his ducats into the bargain."

"Well, really," said Theodore, laughing, "I should think that the

greater part of the virtuosos of the present day--although they do

consider themselves far beyond any description of instruction or

advice--would be glad enough to have a few lessons such as the Baron

von S---- was in the habit of giving."

"I render thanks to Heaven," said Vincenz, "that this meeting of our

Club has ended so happily. I never dared to hope that it would; and I

would fain entreat my worthy Serapion Brethren to see that proper

measures are taken, in future, that there be a due alternation between

the terrifying and the entertaining, which on this occasion has by no

means been the case."

"This admonition of yours," Ottmar said, "is right and proper; but it

rested with yourself to rectify the error into which we have fallen

to-night by contributing something of your own, in your special style

of humour."

"The truth is," said Lothair, "that you, my very fine fellow--and at

the same time my very lazy-as-to-writing fellow--have never yet paid

your entrance-money into the Serapion Guild, and the only mode of

payment is a Serapiontic story."

"Hush!" cried Vincenz. "You don't know what has come glowing forth from

my heart, and is nestling in this breast-pocket of mine here; a quite

remarkable little creature of a story, which I specially commend to the

favour of our Lothair. I should have read it to you to-night. But don't

you see the landlord's pale face peeping in at the window every now and

then, just in the style in which the uncle Kuehleborn, in Fouqué's

'Undine,' used to 'keek' in at the window of the fisherman's hut.

Haven't you noticed the irritated 'Oh, Jemini!' countenance of the

waiter? Was there not written on his forehead, legibly and distinctly

(when he snuffed the candles), 'Are you going to sit here for ever? Are

you never going to let an honest man get to his well-earned bed?' Those

people are right. It is past twelve: our parting hour has struck some

time ago."

The friends agreed to have another Serapiontic meeting at an early

date, and dispersed.