"Let us leave these drunken fellows," he said with disgust. "Come on, old man. Our partners are waiting in the gaming room." "Ladies and gentlemen," said the Hetman as we entered. "Permit me to present a new player to you, my friend, Lieutenant de Saint-Avit." "Let it go at that," he murmured in my ear. "They are the servants. But I like to fool myself, you see." I saw that he was very drunk indeed. The gaming room was very long and narrow. A huge table, almost level with the floor and surrounded with cushions on which a dozen natives were lying, was the chief article of furniture. Two engravings on the wall gave evidence of the happiest broadmindedness in taste; one of da Vinci's St. John the Baptist, and the _Maison des Dernières Cartouches_ of Alphonse de Neuville. On the table were earthenware goblets. A heavy jar held palm liqueur. I recognized acquaintances among those present; my masseur, the manicure, the barber, and two or three Tuareg who had lowered their veils and were gravely smoking long pipes. While waiting for something better, all were plunged in the delights of a card game that looked like "rams." Two of Antinea's beautiful ladies in waiting, Aguida and Sydya, were among the number. Their smooth bistre skins gleamed beneath veils shot with silver. I was sorry not to see the red silk tunic of Tanit-Zerga. Again, I thought of Morhange, but only for an instant. "The chips, Koukou," demanded the Hetman, "We are not here to amuse ourselves." The Zwinglian cook placed a box of many-colored chips in front of him. Count Bielowsky set about counting them and arranging them in little piles with infinite care. "The white are worth a _louis_," he explained to me. "The red, a hundred francs. The yellow, five hundred. The green, a thousand. Oh, it's the devil of a game that we play here. You will see." "I open with ten thousand," said the Zwinglian cook. "Twelve thousand," said the Hetman. "Thirteen," said Sydya with a slow smile, as she seated herself on the count's knee and began to arrange her chips lovingly in little piles. "Fourteen," I said. "Fifteen," said the sharp voice of Rosita, the old manicure. "Seventeen," proclaimed the Hetman. "Twenty thousand," the cook broke in. He hammered on the table and, casting a defiant look at us, repeated: "I take it at twenty thousand." The Hetman made an impatient gesture. "That devil, Koukou! You can't do anything against the beast. You will have to play carefully, Lieutenant." Koukou had taken his place at the end of the table. He threw down the cards with an air which abashed me. "I told you so; the way it was at Anna Deslions'," the Hetman murmured proudly. "Make your bets, gentlemen," yelped the Negro. "Make your bets." "Wait, you beast," called Bielowsky. "Don't you see that the glasses are empty? Here, Cacambo." The goblets were filled immediately by the jolly masseur. "Cut," said Koukou, addressing Sydya, the beautiful Targa who sat at his right.