“Of what, pray? The worst I can do is to lose what I have in my pocket--something over two hundred francs.” The viscount shook his head thoughtfully. “It isn’t that which one has cause to fear. The devil always has a hand in this business, and the first time a man plays he’s sure to win.” “And is that a misfortune?” “Yes, because the recollection of these first winnings is sure to lure you back to the gaming-table again. You go back, you lose, you try to recover your money, and that’s the end of it--you become a gambler.” Pascal Ferailleur’s smile was the smile of a man who has full confidence in himself. “My brain is not so easily turned, I hope,” said he. “I have the thought of my name, and the fortune I must make, as ballast for it.” “I beseech you not to play,” insisted the viscount. “Listen to me; you don’t know what this passion for play is; the strongest and the coldest natures succumb--don’t play.” He had raised his voice, as if he intended to be overheard by two guests who had just approached the sofa. They did indeed hear him. “Can I believe my own eyes and ears!” exclaimed one of them, an elderly man. “Can this really be Ferdinand who is trying to shake the allegiance of the votaries of our noble lady--the Queen of Spades?” M. de Coralth turned quickly round: “Yes, it is indeed I,” he answered. “I have purchased with my patrimony the right of saying: ‘Distrust yourself, and don’t do as I’ve done,’ to an inexperienced friend.” The wisest counsels, given in a certain fashion, never fail to produce an effect diametrically opposed to that which they seemingly aim at. M. de Coralth’s persistence, and the importance he attached to a mere trifle, could not fail to annoy the most patient man in the world, and in fact his patronizing tone really irritated Pascal. “You are free, my friend, to do as you please,” said he; “but I----” “Are you resolved?” interrupted the viscount. “Absolutely.” “So be it, then. You are no longer a child, and I have warned you. Let us play, then.” Thereupon they approached the table; room was made for them, and they seated themselves, Pascal being on M. Ferdinand de Coralth’s right-hand side. The guests were playing “Baccarat tournant,” a game of terrible and infantile simplicity. There are no such things as skill or combination possible in it; science and calculation are useless. Chance alone decides, and decides with the rapidity of lightning. Amateurs certainly assert that, with great coolness and long practice, one can, in a measure at least, avert prolonged ill-luck. Maybe they are right, but it is not conclusively proved. Each person takes the cards in his turn, risks what he chooses, and when his stakes are covered, deals. If he wins, he is free to follow up his vein of good-luck, or to pass the deal. When he loses, the deal passes at once to the next player on the right.