"The Chevalier, who, notwithstanding all the atrocity of his ongoings, still insisted on there being a certain observance of ordinary _convenance_ amongst the frequenters of his establishment, had been in the highest degree displeased at the derision and contempt with which the old man had been treated, which was sufficient reason for his talking very seriously, when the evening's play was over, to the man who had jeered at him, and to one or two others whose contemptuous behaviour to him had been the most striking, and whom the Chevalier had begged to remain behind on purpose. "'That fellow,' one of them cried out. 'You don't know old Francesco Vertua, Chevalier, or you wouldn't find fault with us for what we did. You would rather thank us. This Vertua, by birth a Neapolitan, has been for fifteen years here, in Paris, the most vile, foul, wicked miser and usurer that could exist. He is lost to every feeling of humanity. If his own brother were to drag himself to his door, writhing in the death agony, and curl round about his feet, he wouldn't give a louis d'or to help him. The curses and execrations of heaps of people, whole families, whom he has driven to ruin by his infernal machinations, lie heavy on him. There is nobody who does not pray that vengeance for what he has done, and is always doing, may overtake him and finish his sin-spotted life. He has never played, at all events since he has been in Paris, and you need not be astonished at our surprise when we saw the old skinflint come to the table. Of course we were just as delighted at his losing, for it would have been altogether too bad if fortune had favoured the scoundrel. The wealth of your banque has dazzled the old noodle. He thought he was going to pluck you, but he has lost his own feathers. But the thing I can't understand is how he can have made up his miserly mind to play so high.'