Aristide brought his hand down with a bang on the table and uttered anathemas in French and Provençal entirely unintelligible to Eugene Miller; but the youth knew by instinct that they were useful, soul-destroying curses and he felt comforted. "Ecarté! You played ecarté with Lussigny? But my dear young friend, do you know anything of ecarté?" "Of course," said Miller. "I used to play it as a child with my sisters." "Do you know the _jeux de règle_?" "The what?" "The formal laws of the game--the rules of discards----" "Never heard of them," said Eugene Miller. "But they are as absolute as the Code Napoléon," cried Aristide. "You can't play without knowing them. You might as well play chess without knowing the moves." "Can't help it," said the young man. "Well, don't play ecarté any more." "I must," said Miller. "_Comment?_" "I must. I've fixed it up to get my revenge this afternoon--in my sitting room at the hotel." "But it's imbecile!" The sweep of Aristide's arm produced prismatic chaos among a tray-full of drinks which the waiter was bringing to the family party at the next table. "It's imbecile," he cried, as soon as order was apologetically and pecuniarily restored. "You are a little mutton going to have its wool taken off." "I've fixed it up," said Miller. "I've never gone back on an engagement yet in my own country and I'm not going to begin this side." Aristide argued. He argued during the mechanical absorption of four glasses of _vermouth-cassis_--after which prodigious quantity of black currant syrup he rose and took the Gadarene youth to Nikola's where he continued the argument during déjeuner. Eugene Miller's sole concession was that Aristide should be present at the encounter and, backing his hand, should have the power (given by the rules of the French game) to guide his play. Aristide agreed and crammed his young friend with the _jeux de règle_ and _pâté de foie gras_. The Count looked rather black when he found Aristide Pujol in Miller's sitting room. He could not, however, refuse him admittance to the game. The three sat down, Aristide by Miller's side, so that he could overlook the hand and, by pointing, indicate the cards that it was advisable to play. The game began. Fortune favored Mr. Eugene Miller. The Count's brow grew blacker. "You are bringing your own luck to our friend, Monsieur Pujol," said he, dealing the cards. "He needs it," said Aristide. "_Le roi_," said the Count, turning up the king. The Count won the vole, or all five tricks, and swept the stakes towards him. Then, fortune quickly and firmly deserted Mr. Miller. The Count besides being an amazingly fine player, held amazingly fine hands. The pile of folded notes in front of him rose higher and higher. Aristide tugged at his beard in agitation. Suddenly, as the Count dealt a king as trump card, he sprang to his feet knocking over the chair behind him. "You cheat, monsieur. You cheat!" "Monsieur!" cried the outraged dealer.