Fanny Beaupre rose to take her place as banker, and Oscar, finding himself observed by the whole table, dared not retire on the ground that he had no money. Speech failed him, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. “Lend me five hundred francs,” said the actress to the danseuse. Florentine brought the money, which she obtained from Georges, who had just passed eight times at ecarte. “Nathan has won twelve hundred francs,” said the actress to Oscar. “Bankers always win; we won’t let them fool us, will we?” she whispered in his ear. Persons of nerve, imagination, and dash will understand how it was that poor Oscar opened his pocket-book and took out the note of five hundred francs which Desroches had given him. He looked at Nathan, the distinguished author, who now began, with Florine, to play a heavy game against the bank. “Come, my little man, take ‘em up,” cried Fanny Beaupre, signing to Oscar to rake in the two hundred francs which Nathan and Florine had punted. The actress did not spare taunts or jests on those who lost. She enlivened the game with jokes which Oscar thought singular; but reflection was stifled by joy; for the first two throws produced a gain of two thousand francs. Oscar then thought of feigning illness and making his escape, leaving his partner behind him; but “honor” kept him there. Three more turns and the gains were lost. Oscar felt a cold sweat running down his back, and he was sobered completely. The next two throws carried off the thousand francs of their mutual stake. Oscar was consumed with thirst, and drank three glasses of iced punch one after the other. The actress now led him into the bed-chamber, where the rest of the company were playing, talking frivolities with an easy air. But by this time the sense of his wrong-doing overcame him; the figure of Desroches appeared to him like a vision. He turned aside to a dark corner and sat down, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and wept. Florentine noticed the attitude of true grief, which, because it is sincere, is certain to strike the eye of one who acts. She ran to him, took the handkerchief from his hand, and saw his tears; then she led him into a boudoir alone. “What is it, my child?” she said. At the tone and accent of that voice Oscar recognized a motherly kindness which is often found in women of her kind, and he answered openly:-- “I have lost five hundred francs which my employer gave me to obtain a document to-morrow morning; there’s nothing for me but to fling myself into the river; I am dishonored.” “How silly you are!” she said. “Stay where you are; I’ll get you a thousand francs and you can win back what you’ve lost; but don’t risk more than five hundred, so that you may be sure of your master’s money. Georges plays a fine game at ecarte; bet on him.” Oscar, frightened by his position, accepted the offer of the mistress of the house.