Apparently unconscious of the act, the right hand next slid over the table edge, and silently deposited a five-franc piece upon the black compartment. "Whiz-z-z-z" started the ball from the fingers of the coupeurs--"click" dropped the ball into a black department of the board; "clink! tingle!" cried the money, changing hands; but not a word said Auburn Risque, standing like a stalagmite with his eyes upon ten francs. "Whiz-z-z!"--"click!" "click!" "tingle!" Did he see the fifteen francs at all, half trance-like, half corpse-like, as he stood, waiting for the third revolution, and waiting again, and again, and again? His five francs have grown to be a hundred; his cold hand falls freezingly upon them; five francs replace the hundred he took away--"Whizz!" goes the ball; "click!" stops the ball; the coupeur seizes Mr. Risque's five francs, and Mr. Risque walks away like a somnambulist. V. BURIED IN THE COMMON DITCH. It would have been a strange scene for an American public, the street corridor of the lofty house near the church of Saint Sulpice, on the funeral afternoon. The coffin lay upon a draped table, and festoons of crape threw phantom shadows upon the soiled velvet covering. Each passing pedestrian and cabman took off his hat a moment. The Southern Colony were in the landlady's bureau enjoying a lunch and liquor, and precisely at three o'clock they came down stairs, not more dilapidated than usual, while at the same moment the municipal hearse drove up, attended by one _cocher_ and two _croquemorts_.[D] [Footnote D: Literally, "parasites of death."] The hearse was a cheap charity affair, furnished by the _Maire_ of the _arrondissement_, though it was sprucely painted and decked with funeral cloth. The driver wore a huge black chapeau, a white cotton cravat, and thigh-boots, which, standing up stiffly as he sat, seemed to engulf him to the ears. When the _croquemorts_, in a business way, lifted the velvet from the coffin, it was seen to be constructed of strips of deal merely, unpainted, and not thicker than a Malaga raisin box. There was some fear that it would fall apart of its own fragility, but the chief _croquemort_ explained politely that such accidents never happened. "We have entombed four of them to-day," he said; "see how nicely we shall lift the fifth one."