He approached the large table, and his look immediately became fixed. In front of him, dealing the bank, he had just recognized Agostini. Impassive and smiling, a flower at his buttonhole, he gracefully distributed the cards at both tables. He did not see Marcel. With his sing-song voice he called out— “Cards!” Marcel, addressing the Baron de Vergins, asked— “Who is the banker?” “Count Cesare Agostini.” “Newly joined the club?” “For a time. Agreeable fellow, good fencer, and reckless player.” “Is he lucky?” “Ah, no. He has very bad luck. Loses more than any one else, in fact.” “Do you know anything about him?” “He was introduced by the Prince de Cystriano and M. Beltrand. The Agostini family is well known; they are the younger branch of the great Italian family, the dukes of Briviesca.” “Why do they receive so many foreigners at the club?” asked Marcel, with a displeased air. “Ah, my dear friend, the club lives on them, so to speak. I know they make themselves as much at home here as at their hotel. It is not very pleasant for us. But what is there to be done? The establishment must be kept going.” “Has he any relations in Paris?” asked Marcel. “A sister?” “No; he is unmarried, and has never been seen in the company of a lady.” Marcel changed the conversation, made an excuse for leaving his companion, and went to the writing-room. Taking up a directory, he found a recent indication, handwritten as follows: “Count Cesare Agostini, 7 Rue du Colisée.” It was something to know this address, though what he wanted was information respecting that mysterious woman, Anetta or Sophia, Madame Vignola or the Baroness Grodsko. What was Agostini to him besides that infinitely charming creature, who had suddenly become metamorphosed into a most dangerous monster. Her brother, really? Her accomplice, without the slightest doubt. That was what he wished to know, and, at the risk of the greatest danger, he was determined to have his doubts removed. He had taken a seat in a large armchair, the back of which, turned towards the door, almost entirely concealed him. Two members of the club were writing letters. The quiet of this retired spot, the ticking of the timepiece, seemed to numb his faculties. The murmur of distant voices lulled him into a reverie. Suddenly a quiver ran over him, and he listened attentively. The voice of Agostini had just joined in the conversation. “I have again lost two thousand louis. With the thousand yesterday, it is quite enough.” He laughed, and one of his companions said— “You ought to hold off for a few days, Agostini! It is useless being obstinate against ill-luck.” “But if I did not play, what should I do? It is my only distraction.” “That was a beautiful lady, at the opera, to whom you introduced Colonel Derbaut the other night.”