The hero of the night was seated at the middle of one side of the table,
in the place of honor. For his ‘vis-a-vis’ he had his lively friend
Fanny Dorville, star of the Palais Royal, while at his right sat Heloise
Virot, the “first old woman,” or duenna, of the same theatre, whose well
known jests and eccentricities added their own piquancy to gay life in
Paris. The two artists, being compelled to appear in the after-piece at
their theatre that evening, had come to the dinner made up and in full
stage costume, ready to appear behind the footlights at the summons of
the call-boy.
The other guests were young men accustomed to the surroundings of the
weighing-stand and the betting-room, at a time when betting had not yet
become a practice of the masses; and most of them felt highly honored
to rub elbows with a nobleman of ancient lineage, as was Henri de
Prerolles.
Among these persons was Andre Desvanneaux, whose father, a churchwarden
at Ste.-Clotilde, had attained a certain social prestige by his good
works, and Paul Landry, in his licentiate in a large banking house in
Paris. The last named was the son of a ship-owner at Havre, and his
character was ambitious and calculating. He cherished, under a
quiet demeanor, a strong hope of being able to supply, by the rapid
acquisition of a fortune, the deficiencies of his inferior birth, from
which his secret vanity suffered severely. Being an expert in all games
of chance, he had already accumulated, while waiting for some brilliant
coup, enough to lead a life of comparative elegance, thus giving a
certain satisfaction to his instincts. He and Henri de Prerolles never
yet had played cards together, but the occasion was sure to come some
day, and Paul Landry had desired it a long time.
The company, a little silent at first, was becoming somewhat more
animated, when a head-waiter, correct, and full of a sense of his own
importance, entered the salon, holding out before him with both hands
a large tray covered with slender glasses filled with a beverage called
“the cardinal’s drink,” composed of champagne, Bordeaux, and slices of
pineapple. The method of blending these materials was a professional
secret of the Freres-Provencaux.
Instantly the guests were on their feet, and Heloise, who had been
served first, proposed that they should drink the health of the Marquis,
but, prompted by one of her facetious impulses, instead of lifting the
glass to her own lips, she presented it to those of the waiter, and,
raising her arm, compelled him to swallow the contents. Encouraged
by laughter and applause, she presented to him a second glass, then a
third; and the unhappy man drank obediently, not being able to push away
the glasses without endangering the safety of the tray he carried.
Fanny Dorville interceded in vain for the victim; the inexorable duenna
had already seized a fourth glass, and the final catastrophe would have
been infallibly brought about, had not providence intervened in the
person of the call-boy, who, thrusting his head through the half-open
doorway, cried, shrilly:
“Ladies, they are about to begin!”
The two actresses hastened away, escorted by Andre Desvanneaux, a modern
Tartufe, who, though married, was seen everywhere, as much at home
behind the scenes as in church.
Coffee and liqueurs were then served in a salon adjoining the large
dining-room, which gave the effect of a private club-room to this part
of the restaurant.
Cigars were lighted, and conversation soon turned on feminine charms and
the performances of various horses, particularly those of Franc-Comtois,
the winner of the military steeplechase. This animal was one of the
products of the Prerolles stud, and was ordinary enough on flat ground,
but a jumper of the first rank.
At last the clock struck the half hour after eleven, and some of the
guests had already manifested their intention to depart, when Paul
Landry, who had been rather silent until then, said, carelessly:
“You expect to sleep to-night in Paris, no doubt, Monsieur de
Prerolles?”
“Oh, no,” Henri replied, “I am on duty this week, and am obliged to
return to Vincennes early in the morning. So I shall stay here until it
is time for me to go.”
“In that case, might we not have a game of cards?” proposed Captain
Constantin Lenaieff, military attache to the suite of the Russian
ambassador.
“As you please,” said Henri.
This proposal decided every one to remain. The company returned to the
large dining-room, which, in the mean time, had been again transformed
into a gaming-hall, with the usual accessories: a frame for the
tally-sheet, a metal bowl to hold rejected playing-cards set in one end
of the table, and, placed at intervals around it, were tablets on which
the punter registered the amount of the stakes.
On reentering this apartment, Henri de Prerolles approached a sort
of counter, and, drawing from his pocket thirty thousand francs in
bank-notes, he exchanged them for their value in mother-of-pearl
“chips” of different sizes, representing sums from one to five, ten,
twenty-five, or a hundred louis. Paul Landry took twenty-five thousand
francs’ worth; Constantin Unaieff, fifteen thousand; the others, less
fortunate or more prudent, took smaller sums; and about midnight the
game began.