Vinal and Richards accordingly set forth without him, the latter acquitting himself wholly to his companion's satisfaction and his own. Vinal, who inclined very little to youthful amusements, contemplated all he saw with the eye of a philosopher rather than of a sybarite, looking upon it as a curious study of human nature, in the knowledge of which he was always eager to perfect himself. In the course of their excursion, they entered a large and handsome building on the Boulevard des Italiens. Here they passed through a succession of rooms filled with men engaged in various games of hazard, more or less deep, and came at length to two small apartments, which seemed to form the penetralia of the temple. In the farther of these was a table, about which sat some eight or ten well-dressed men, and at the head, a sedate, collected, vigilant-looking person, with a little wooden rake in his hand. "_Messieurs, tout est fait. Rien ne va plus_," he said, drawing towards him a plentiful heap of gold coin, almost at the instant that Vinal and Richards came in. The game was that moment finished. As he spoke, a strong, thick-set man rose abruptly from the table, muttering a savage oath through his black moustache, and brushing fiercely past the two visitors, went out at the door. Richards pressed Vinal's arm, as a hint that he should observe him. As the game was not immediately resumed, they soon left the room; and after staking and losing a few small pieces at another table, returned to the street. "Did you observe that man who passed us?" asked Richards. "Yes. He seemed out of humor with his luck." "He was clean emptied out; I would swear to it. I was afraid he would see me as he went by, but he didn't." "Why, do you know him?" "O, yes; and you ought to know him too, if you want to understand how things are managed hereabouts. He's a patriot,--agitator,--democrat,--red republican,--conspirator,--you can call him whichever you like, according to taste. He's mixed up with all the secret clubs, secret committees, and what not, from one end of the continent to the other. He's a sort of political sapper and miner,--not exactly like our patriots of '76, but all's fair that aims a kick at the House of Hapsburg." "Has he any special spite in that quarter?" "He has been intriguing so long in Austria and Lombardy, that now he could not show his face there a moment without being arrested. So he is living here, where he keeps very quiet at present, for fear of consequences." "What is his name?" "Speyer,--Henry Speyer." "A German?"