mind a strong liking for faro, which with all its simplicity is the
most ominous of games; and this liking continued to increase more and
more. He was no longer dissatisfied with his good-luck; gambling
fettered his attention and held him fast to the table for nights and
nights, so that he was perforce compelled to give credence to the
peculiar attraction of the game, of which his friends had formerly
spoken and which he would by no means allow to be correct, for he was
attracted to faro not by the thirst for gain, but simply and solely by
the game itself.
One night, just as the banker had finished a _taille_, the Baron
happened to raise his eyes and observed that an elderly man had taken
post directly opposite to him and had got his eyes fixed upon him in a
set, sad, earnest gaze. And as long as play lasted, every time the
Baron looked up, his eyes met the stranger's dark sad stare, until at
last he could not help being struck with a very uncomfortable and
oppressive feeling. And the stranger only left the apartment when play
came to an end for the night. The following night he again stood
opposite the Baron, staring at him with unaverted gaze, whilst his eyes
had a dark mysterious spectral look. The Baron still kept his temper.
But when on the third night the stranger appeared again and fixed his
eyes, burning with a consuming fire, upon the Baron, the latter burst
out, "Sir, I must beg you to choose some other place. You exercise a
constraining influence upon my play."
With a painful smile the stranger bowed and left the table, and the
hall too, without uttering a word.
But on the next night the stranger again stood opposite the Baron,
piercing him through and through with his dark fiery glance. Then the
Baron burst out still more angrily than on the preceding night, "If you
think it a joke, sir, to stare at me, pray choose some other time and
some other place to do so; and now have the"---- A wave of the hand
towards the door took the place of the harsh words the Baron was about
to utter. And as on the previous night, the stranger, after bowing
slightly, left the hall with the same painful smile upon his lips.
Siegfried was so excited and heated by play, by the wine which he had
taken, and also by the scene with the stranger, that he could not
sleep. Morning was already breaking, when the stranger's figure
appeared before his eyes. He observed his striking, sharp-cut features,
worn with suffering, and his sad deep-set eyes just as he had stared at
him; and he noticed his distinguished bearing, which, in spite of his
mean clothing, betrayed a man of high culture. And then the air of
painful resignation with which the stranger submitted to the harsh
words flung at him, and fought down his bitter feelings with an effort,
and left the hall! "No," cried Siegfried, "I did him wrong--great
wrong. Is it indeed at all like me to blaze up in this rude, ill-
mannered way, like an uncultivated clown, and to offer insults to
people without the least provocation?" The Baron at last arrived at the
conviction that it must have been a most oppressive feeling of the
sharp contrast between them which had made the man stare at him so; in
the moment that he was perhaps contending with the bitterest poverty,
he (the Baron) was piling up heaps and heaps of gold with all the
superciliousness of the gambler. He resolved to find out the stranger
that very morning and atone to him for his rudeness.
And as chance would have it, the very first person whom the Baron saw
strolling down the avenue was the stranger himself.
The Baron addressed him, offered the most profuse apologies for his
behaviour of the night before, and in conclusion begged the stranger's
pardon in all due form. The stranger replied that he had nothing to
pardon, since large allowances must be made for a player deeply intent
over his game, and besides, he had only himself to blame for the harsh
words he had provoked, since he had obstinately persisted in remaining
in the place where he disturbed the Baron's play.
The Baron went further; he said there were often seasons of momentary
embarrassment in life which weighed with a most galling effect upon a
man of refinement, and he plainly hinted to the stranger that he was
willing to give the money he had won, or even more still, if by that
means he could perhaps be of any assistance to him.
"Sir," replied the stranger, "you think I am in want, but that is not
indeed the case; for though poor rather than rich, I yet have enough to
satisfy my simple wants. Moreover, you will yourself perceive that as a
man of honour I could not possibly accept a large sum of money from you
as indemnification for the insult you conceive you have offered me,
even though I were not a gentleman of birth."
"I think I understand you," replied the Baron starting; "I am ready to
grant you the satisfaction you demand."
"Good God!" continued the stranger--"Good God, how unequal a contest it
would be between us two! I am certain that you think as I do about a
duel, that it is not to be treated as a piece of childish folly; nor do
you believe that a few drops of blood, which have perhaps fallen from a
scratched finger, can ever wash tarnished honour bright again. There
are many cases in which it is impossible for two particular individuals
to continue to exist together on this earth, even though the one live
in the Caucasus and the other on the Tiber; no separation is possible
so long as the hated foe can be thought of as still alive. In this case
a duel to decide which of the two is to give way to the other on this
earth is a necessity. Between us now, as I have just said, a duel would
be fought upon unequal terms, since nohow can my life be valued so
highly as yours. If I run you through, I destroy a whole world of the
finest hopes; and if I fall, then you have put an end to a miserable
existence, that is harrowed by the bitterest and most agonising
memories. But after all--and this is of course the main thing--I don't
conceive myself to have been in the remotest degree insulted. You bade
me go, and I went."
These last words the stranger spoke in a tone which nevertheless
betrayed the sting in his heart. This was enough for the Baron to again
apologise, which he did by especially dwelling upon the fact that the
stranger's glance had, he did not know why, gone straight to his heart,
till at last he could endure it no longer.
"I hope then," said the stranger, "that if my glance did really
penetrate to your heart, it aroused you to a sense of the threatening
danger on the brink of which you are hovering. With a light glad heart
and youthful ingenuousness you are standing on the edge of the abyss of
ruin; one single push and you will plunge headlong down without a hope
of rescue. In a single word, you are on the point of becoming a
confirmed and passionate gambler and ruining yourself."
The Baron assured him that he was completely mistaken. He related the
circumstances under which he had first gone to the faro-table, and
assured him that he entirely lacked the gambler's characteristic
disposition; all he wished was to lose two hundred _Louis d'or_ or so,
and when he had succeeded in this he intended to cease punting. Up to
that time, however, he had had the most conspicuous run of good-luck.
"Oh! but," cried the stranger, "oh! but it is exactly this run of good-
luck wherein lies the subtlest and most formidable temptation of the
malignant enemy. It is this run of good-luck which attends your play,
Baron,--the circumstances under which you have begun to play,--nay,
your entire behaviour whilst actually engaged in play, which only too
plainly betray how your interest in it deepens and increases on each
occasion; all--all this reminds me only too forcibly of the awful fate
of a certain unhappy man, who, in many respects like you, began to play
under circumstances similar to those which you have described in your
own case. And therefore it was that I could not keep my eyes off you,
and that I was hardly able to restrain myself from saying in words what
my glances were meant to tell you. 'Oh! see--see--see the demons
stretching out their talons to drag you down into the pit of ruin.'
Thus I should like to have called to you. I was desirous of making your
acquaintance; and I have succeeded. Let me tell you the history of the
unfortunate man whom I mentioned; you will then perhaps be convinced
that it is no idle phantom of the brain when I see you in the most
imminent danger, and warn you."
The stranger and the Baron both sat down upon a seat which stood quite
isolated, and then the stranger began as follows:--
"The same brilliant qualities which distinguish you, Herr Baron, gained
Chevalier Menars the esteem and admiration of men and made him a
favourite amongst women. In riches alone Fortune had not been so
gracious to him as she has been to you; he was almost in want; and it
was only through exercising the strictest economy that he was enabled
to appear in a state becoming his position as the scion of a
distinguished family. Since even the smallest loss would be serious for
him and upset the entire tenor of his course of life, he dare not
indulge in play; besides, he had no inclination to do so, and it was
therefore no act of self-sacrifice on his part to avoid the tables. It
is to be added that he had the most remarkable success in everything
which he took in hand, so that Chevalier Menars' good-luck became a
by-word.
"One night he suffered himself to be persuaded, contrary to his
practice, to visit a play-house. The friends whom he had accompanied
were soon deeply engaged in play.
"Without taking any interest in what was going forward, the Chevalier,
busied with thoughts of quite a different character, first strode up
and down the apartment and then stood with his eyes fixed upon the
gaming-table, where the gold continued to pour in upon the banker from
all sides. All at once an old colonel observed the Chevalier, and cried
out, 'The devil! Here we've got Chevalier Menars and his good-luck
amongst us, and yet we can win nothing, since he has declared neither
for the banker nor for the punters. But we can't have it so any longer;
he shall at once punt for me.'
"All the Baron's attempts to excuse himself on the ground of his lack
of skill and total want of experience were of no avail; the Colonel was
not to be denied; the Chevalier must take his place at the table.
"The Chevalier had exactly the same run of fortune that you have, Herr
Baron. The cards fell favourable for him, and he had soon won a
considerable sum for the Colonel, whose joy at his grand thought of
claiming the loan of Chevalier Menars' steadfast good-luck knew no
bounds.
"This good-luck, which quite astonished all the rest of those present,
made not the slightest impression upon the Chevalier; nay, somehow, in
a way inexplicable to himself, his aversion to play took deeper root,
so that on the following morning when he awoke and felt the
consequences of his exertion during the night, through which he had
been awake, in a general relaxation both mental and physical, he took a
most earnest resolve never again under any circumstances to visit a
play-house.
"And in this resolution he was still further strengthened by the old
Colonel's conduct; he had the most decided ill-luck with every card he
took up; and the blame for this run of bad-luck he, with the most
extraordinary infatuation, put upon the Chevalier's shoulders. In an
importunate manner he demanded that the Chevalier should either punt
for him or at any rate stand at his side, so as by his presence to
banish the perverse demon who always put into his hands cards which
never turned up right. Of course it is well known that there is more
absurd superstition to be found amongst gamblers than almost anywhere
else. The only way in which the Chevalier could get rid of the Colonel
was by declaring in a tone of great seriousness that he would rather
fight him than play for him, for the Colonel was no great friend of
duels. The Chevalier cursed his good-nature in having complied with the
old fool's request at first.
"Now nothing less was to be expected than that the story of the Baron's
marvellously lucky play should pass from mouth to mouth, and also that
all sorts of enigmatical mysterious circumstances should be invented
and added on to it, representing the Chevalier as a man in league with
supernatural powers. But the fact that the Chevalier in spite of his
good-luck did not touch another card, could not fail to inspire the
highest respect for his firmness of character, and so very much
increase the esteem which he already enjoyed.
"Somewhere about a year later the Chevalier was suddenly placed in a
most painful and embarrassing position owing to the non-arrival of the
small sum of money upon which he relied to defray his current expenses.
He was obliged to disclose his circumstances to his most intimate
friend, who without hesitation supplied him with what he needed, at the
same time twitting him with being the most hopelessly eccentric fellow
that ever was. 'Destiny,' said he 'gives us hints in what way and where
we ought to seek our own benefit; and we have only our own indolence to
blame if we do not heed, do not understand these hints. The Higher
Power that rules over us has whispered quite plainly in your ears, If
you want money and property go and play, else you will be poor and
needy, and never independent, as long as you live.'
"And now for the first time the thought of how wonderfully fortune had
favoured him at the faro-bank took clear and distinct shape in his
mind; and both in his dreams and when awake he heard the banker's
monotonous _gagne_, _perd_,2 and the rattle of the gold pieces. 'Yes,
it is undoubtedly so,' he said to himself, 'a single night like that
one before would free me from my difficulties, and help me over the
painful embarrassment of being a burden to my friends; it is my duty to
follow the beckoning finger of fate.' The friends who had advised him
to try play, accompanied him to the play-house, and gave him twenty
_Louis d'or_3 more that he might begin unconcerned.
"If the Chevalier's play had been splendid when he punted for the old
Colonel, it was indeed doubly so now. Blindly and without choice he
drew the cards he staked upon, but the invisible hand of that Higher
Power which is intimately related to Chance, or rather actually is what
we call Chance, seemed to be regulating his play. At the end of the
evening he had won a thousand _Louis d'or_.
"Next morning he awoke with a kind of dazed feeling. The gold pieces he
had won lay scattered about beside him on the table. At the first
moment he fancied he was dreaming; he rubbed his eyes; he grasped the
table and pulled it nearer towards him. But when he began to reflect
upon what had happened, when he buried his fingers amongst the gold
pieces, when he counted them with gratified satisfaction, and even
counted them through again, then delight in the base mammon shot for
the first time like a pernicious poisonous breath through his every
nerve and fibre, then it was all over with the purity of sentiment
which he had so long preserved intact. He could hardly wait for night
to come that he might go to the faro-table again. His good-luck
continued constant, so that after a few weeks, during which he played
nearly every night, he had won a considerable sum.
"Now there are two sorts of players. Play simply as such affords to
many an indescribable and mysterious pleasure, totally irrespective of
gain. The strange complications of chance occur with the most
surprising waywardness; the government of the Higher Power becomes
conspicuously evident; and this it is which stirs up our spirit to move
its wings and see if it cannot soar upwards into the mysterious
kingdom, the fateful workshop of this Power, in order to surprise it at
its labours.
"I once knew a man who spent many days and nights alone in his room,
keeping a bank and punting against himself; this man was, according to
my way of thinking, a genuine player. Others have nothing but gain
before their eyes, and look upon play as a means to getting rich
speedily. This class the Chevalier joined, thus once more establishing
the truth of the saying that the real deeper inclination for play must
lie in the individual nature--must be born in it. And for this reason
he soon found the sphere of activity to which the punter is confined
too narrow. With the very large sum of money that he had won by
gambling he established a bank of his own; and in this enterprise
fortune favoured him to such an extent that within a short time his
bank was the richest in all Paris. And agreeably to the nature of the
case, the largest proportion of players flocked to him, the richest and
luckiest banker.
"The heartless, demoralising life of a gambler soon blotted out all
those advantages, as well mental as physical, which had formerly
secured to the Chevalier people's affection and esteem. He ceased to be
a faithful friend, a cheerful, easy guest in society, a chivalrous and
gallant admirer of the fair sex. Extinguished was all his taste for
science and art, and gone all striving to advance along the road to
sound knowledge. Upon his deathly pale countenance, and in his gloomy
eyes, where a dim, restless fire gleamed, was to be read the full
expression of the extremely baneful passion in whose toils he was
entangled. It was not fondness for play, no, it was the most abominable
avarice which had been enkindled in his soul by Satan himself. In a
single word, he was the most finished specimen of a faro-banker that
may be seen anywhere.
"One night Fortune was less favourable to the Chevalier than usual,
although he suffered no loss of any consequence. Then a little thin old
man, meanly clad, and almost repulsive to look at, approached the
table, drew a card with a trembling hand, and placed a gold piece upon
it. Several of the players looked up at the old man at first greatly
astonished, but after that they treated him with provoking contempt.
Nevertheless his face never moved a muscle, far less did he utter a
single word of complaint.
"The old man lost; he lost one stake after another; but the higher his
losses rose the more pleased the other players got. And at last, when
the new-comer, who continued to double his stake every time, placed
five hundred _Louis d'or_ at once upon a card and this the very next
moment turned up on the losing side, one of the other players cried
with a laugh, 'Good-luck, Signor Vertua, good-luck! Don't lose heart.
Go on staking; you look to me as if you would finish with breaking the
bank through your immense winnings.' The old man shot a basilisk-like
look upon the mocker and hurried away, but only to return at the end of
half an hour with his pockets full of gold. In the last _taille_ he
was, however, obliged to cease playing, since he had again lost all the
money he had brought back with him.
"This scornful and contemptuous treatment of the old man had
excessively annoyed the Chevalier, for in spite of all his abominable
practices, he yet insisted on certain rules of good behaviour being
observed at his table. And so on the conclusion of the game, when
Signor Vertua had taken his departure, the Chevalier felt he had
sufficient grounds to speak a serious word or two to the mocker, as
well as to one or two other players whose contemptuous treatment of the
old man had been most conspicuous, and whom the Chevalier had bidden
stay behind for this purpose.
"'Ah! but, Chevalier,' cried one of them, 'you don't know old Francesco
Vertua, or else you would have no fault to find with us and our
behaviour towards him; you would rather approve of it. For let me tell
you that this Vertua, a Neapolitan by birth, who has been fifteen years
in Paris, is the meanest, dirtiest, most pestilent miser and usurer who
can be found anywhere. He is a stranger to every human feeling; if he
saw his own brother writhing at his feet in the agonies of death, it
would be an utter waste of pains to try to entice a single _Louis d'or_
from him, even if it were to save his brother's life. He has a heavy
burden of curses and imprecations to bear, which have been showered
down upon him by a multitude of men, nay, by entire families, who have
been plunged into the deepest distress through his diabolical
speculations. He is hated like poison by all who know him; everybody
wishes that vengeance may overtake him for all the evil that he has
done, and that it may put an end to his career of iniquity. He has
never played before, at least since he has been in Paris; and so from
all this you need not wonder at our being so greatly astounded when the
old skin-flint appeared at your table. And for the same reasons we
were, of course, pleased at the old fellow's serious losses, for it
would have been hard, very hard, if the old rascal had been favoured by
Fortune. It is only too certain. Chevalier, that the old fool has been
deluded by the riches of your bank. He came intending to pluck you and
has lost his own feathers. But yet it completely puzzles me how Vertua
could act thus in a way so opposite to the true character of a miser,
and could bring himself to play so high. Ah! well--you'll see he will
not come again; we are now quit of him.'
"But this opinion proved to be far from correct, for on the very next
night Vertua presented himself at the Chevalier's bank again, and
staked and lost much more heavily than on the night preceding. But he
preserved a calm demeanour through it all; he even smiled at times with
a sort of bitter irony, as though foreseeing how soon things would be
totally changed. But during each of the succeeding nights the old man's
losses increased like a glacier at a greater and greater rate, till at
last it was calculated that he had paid over thirty thousand _Louis
d'or_ to the bank. Finally he entered the hall one evening, long after
play had begun, with a deathly pale face and troubled looks, and took
up his post at some distance from the table, his eyes riveted in a set
stare upon the cards which the Chevalier successively drew. At last,
just as the Chevalier had shuffled the cards, had had them cut and was
about to begin the _taille_, the old man cried in such a harsh grating
voice, 'Stop!' that everybody looked round well-nigh dismayed. Then,
forcing his way to the table close up to the Chevalier, he said in his
ear, speaking in a hoarse voice, 'Chevalier, my house in the Rue St.
Honoré, together with all the furniture and all the gold and silver and
all the jewels I possess, are valued at eighty thousand francs, will
you accept the stake?' 'Very good,' replied the Chevalier coldly,
without looking round at the old man; and he began the _taille_.
"'The queen,' said Vertua; and at the next draw the queen had lost. The
old man reeled back from the table and leaned against the wall
motionless and paralysed, like a rigid stone statue. Nobody troubled
himself any further about him.
"Play was over for the night; the players were dispersing; the
Chevalier and his croupiers4 were packing away in the strong box the
gold he had won. Then old Vertua staggered like a ghost out of the
corner towards the Chevalier and addressed him in a hoarse, hollow
voice, 'Yet a word with you, Chevalier,--only a single word.'
"'Well, what is it?' replied the Chevalier, withdrawing the key from
the lock of the strong box and measuring the old man from head to foot
with a look of contempt.
"'I have lost all my property at your bank, Chevalier,' went on the old
man; 'I have nothing, nothing left I don't know where I shall lay my
head tomorrow, nor how I shall appease my hunger. You are my last
resource, Chevalier; lend me the tenth part of the sum I have lost to
you that I may begin my business over again, and so work my way up out
of the distressed state I now am in.'
"'Whatever are you thinking about,' rejoined the Chevalier, 'whatever
are you thinking about, Signor Vertua? Don't you know that a faro-
banker never dare lend of his winnings? That's against the old rule,
and I am not going to violate it.'
"'You are right,' went on Vertua again. 'You are right, Chevalier. My
request was senseless--extravagant--the tenth part! No, lend me the
twentieth part.' 'I tell you,' replied the Chevalier impatiently, 'that
I won't lend a farthing of my winnings.'
"'True, true,' said Vertua, his face growing paler and paler and his
gaze becoming more and more set and staring, 'true, you ought not to
lend anything--I never used to do. But give some alms to a beggar--give
him a hundred _Louis d'or_ of the riches which blind Fortune has thrown
in your hands to-day.'