worship. And is not gaming a species of idolatry, symbolized
by cards, and which has its images, its fetishes, its miracles, its
fanatics, and its martyrs?

Occasionally, above the accompaniment of whispers, rose the strange and
incoherent exclamations of the players: "Here are twenty louis! I take
it--I pass! The play is made! Banco!"

"What a strange gathering!" thought Pascal Ferailleur. "What singular
people!" And he turned his attention to the mistress of the house, as if
he hoped to decipher the solution of the enigma on her face.

But Madame Lia d'Argeles defied all analysis. She was one of those women
whose uncertain age varies according to their mood, between the thirties
and the fifties; one who did not look over thirty in the evening, but
who would have been charged with being more than fifty the next morning.
In her youth she must have been very beautiful, and she was still
good-looking, though she had grown somewhat stout, and her face had
become a trifle heavy, thus marring the symmetry of her very delicate
features. A perfect blonde, she had eyes of so clear a blue that they
seemed almost faded. The whiteness of her skin was so unnatural that it
almost startled one. It was the dull, lifeless white which suggests an
excessive use of cosmetics and rice powder, and long baths, late hours,
and sleep at day-time, in a darkened room. Her face was utterly devoid
of expression. One might have fancied that its muscles had become
relaxed after terrible efforts to feign or to conceal some violent
emotions; and there was something melancholy, almost terrifying in the
eternal, and perhaps involuntary smile, which curved her lips. She wore
a dress of black velvet, with slashed sleeves and bodice, a new design
of the famous man-milliner, Van Klopen.

Pascal was engaged in these observations when M. de Coralth, having made
his round, came and sat down on the sofa beside him. "Well, what do you
think of it?" he inquired.

"Upon my word!" replied the young advocate, "I am infinitely obliged to
you for inviting me to accompany you here. I am intensely amused."

"Good! My philosopher is captivated."

"Not captivated, but interested, I confess." Then, in the tone of
good-humor which was habitual to him, he added: "As for being the sage
you call me, that's all nonsense. And to prove it, I'm going to risk my
louis with the rest."

M. de Coralth seemed amazed, but a close observer might have detected a
gleam of triumph