Chevalier Galban, entering, only heard Nicholas Turgenieff's four last words, and saw nothing but a gambling-table. The banker repeated-- "Je suis un président sans phrases. Messieurs, faites vos jeux!" One of the men playing--the Pole--rose from his seat with a disturbed look-- "Merci, monsieurs, c'en était assez!" Another, Jakuskin, drying the sweat from his brow, struck his hand on the table-- "J'ai tout perdu!" All as if it were a real roulette-table. The others continued cold-bloodedly to lay their parcels of gold on the numbers, seeming unaware of the new-comer's arrival. The hostess only advanced quickly to greet him. "I was certain that you would find out our den; I kept this seat for you." "You honor me too much, _diva_. I ought to have good luck in play to-night, as I have just had the opposite fate in love." "How is that? Did the pretty Gitanitza escape you?" "_Au contraire_, she fell asleep. A checkmate such as never happened to me before!" Zeneida gave a merry laugh. No one could have divined under its mask the agitation she was feeling. She knew that a sleeping-draught had been given to Diabolka. "Come along! let us be partners for gain or loss." Chevalier Galban, accepting, took the seat allotted to him; Zeneida seated herself on the arm of his chair. So it is a roulette-table pure and simple, and the party assembled gamblers. There is no "green book." A thickness of half an inch lay between him and it--his arm rested on it. Merely contravention of a police regulation--a thing winked at by the authorities. Suppressed inclinations will find a vent--far better it should be on moral than political domains. Nor is it any matter for wonder that Nicholas Turgenieff should be the roulette banker. A man may be a _bel esprit_, a great author, philosopher, philanthropist, and yet have a passion for play. Even Napoleon was a gambler. As the game was in full swing, Pushkin suddenly entered to them from a side room with flushed cheeks, crying, in a tone of triumph: "The song is ready." The gamblers looked askance at him. Now he would betray all. Lucky for them all that his eyes had mechanically sought Zeneida's. She, still sitting on the arm of Galban's chair, glanced significantly at the Chevalier. Pushkin saw him. "Let us hear it," said Galban, toying with his pile of gold pieces. Pushkin changed color for an instant as he stared at him, then plunged his hand into his breast-pocket. All followed his movements anxiously. What would he bring out? Perhaps the song of freedom, just composed; and would he declaim or sing it, for Chevalier Galban's edification? Or would he draw that which every conspirator carried, dancing or drinking, a pointed stiletto to strike down the traitor then and there? He drew out a packet of papers, smiling the while. "Here is what I promised you, _The Romance of the Lovely Gypsy Girl_. Shall I read it?"