"Come, I say, Galban, if I were to tell a man who had never tasted wine that he might drink what ran out from the bung-hole of a cask the third day after the vintage, that man would swear that there was no such disgusting stuff as wine in the world." "Messieurs, je suis un président sans phrases. Le dernier jeu!" broke in the banker's voice, interrupting the dangerous turn the conversation had taken. It was time, moreover, to finish the game; for if by five o'clock Chevalier Galban had not left the palace, the police would have broken open the doors, and every one in it have been arrested. The roulette was turned for the last time. Chevalier Galban had won six thousand four hundred rubles, which he gallantly shared with Zeneida. Then, with the customary forms of good society, he took his leave. The remaining company looked at one another. Every one well knew that roulette was a mere farce among them. It was alike Zeneida's money which furnished bank and players. Hence the general smile which went round on Galban's winning a pile of his hostess's money and then courteously sharing it with her. But there was a glow of triumph on Zeneida's countenance, as, raising the bouquet with its diamond-set holder in her hand, she murmured, in a tone of angry satisfaction: "Je le payais!" Chevalier Galban had received back the price of his diamonds, without ever suspecting that it had, so to speak, been thrown after him. CHAPTER X FROM SCENT OF MUSK TO REEKING TAR When those assembled were assured of Galban's departure, Pestel began: "My lords and gentlemen, that was very fine--I mean the romance; but it seems to me we have met to discuss other matters. Is it not so, Cousin Krizsanowski?" The Polish noble shrugged his shoulders. "I have nothing more to say." At the same time, drawing from his pocket the inevitable meerschaum and tobacco-pouch, he slowly filled and lighted his pipe, which in the Eastern "language of tobacco" implies, "I should have plenty to say, if I could only smoke out from here certain folk who seem suspicious to me." Zeneida, understanding his meaning, whispered something in Ryleieff's ear. "All right," returned Ryleieff, "let us hear our Pushkin's song of liberty. True, the fine romance you read us entitles us to name you our Tyrtæus. Never, since Byron--" Pushkin did not allow him to finish the sentence. His praises excited him to fury. A schoolboy may win with pride the prize for the best verses, and carry it home in triumph to his parents, but your true poet cannot brook being praised to his face. He feels that he has constrained your praises. Thus, if you be a woman, throw him a flower; if a man, give him a shake of the hand; but never tell him face to face that he has composed a fine poem; by so doing you repel him. And worse than all is it for another poet to praise his work. "_Genus irritabile vatum._"