, and saying
that they would content themselves by betting with each other. Of course
Olivier was rather surprised at this declaration, but he soon understood
by certain signs from Chauvignac that this reservation was intended to
do away with the count's suspicions, in case of their success.

The count, enormously rich as he was, would only play for bank-notes.
'Metal smells bad in a room,' he said. The novice, at first confused
at being a party to the intended roguery, followed the dictates of his
conscience and, neglecting the advantages of his hands, trusted merely
to chance. The result was that the only thousand-franc bank-note he had
was speedily transferred to the count. At that moment Chauvignac gave
him a significant look, and this, together with the desire to retrieve
his loss, induced him to put into execution the culpable manoeuvres
which his friend had taught him. His work was of the easiest; the count
was so short-sighted that he had to keep his nose almost upon the cards
to see them. Chance now turned, as might be expected, and thousand-franc
bank-notes soon accumulated in the hands of Olivier, who, intoxicated by
this possession, worked away with incredible ardour. Moreover, the
count was not in the least out of humour at losing so immensely; on the
contrary, he was quite jovial; indeed, from his looks he might have been
supposed to be the winner. At length, however, he said with a smile,
taking a pinch from his golden snuff-box--'I am evidently not in vein. I
have lost eighty thousand francs. I see that I shall soon be in for one
hundred thousand. But it is proper, my dear sir, that I should say I
don't make a habit of losing more than this sum at a sitting; and if
it must be so, I propose to sup before losing my last twenty thousand
francs. Perhaps this will change my vein. I think you will grant me this
indulgence.' The proposal was agreed to.

Olivier, almost out of his senses at the possession of eighty thousand
francs, could not resist the desire of expressing his gratitude to
Chauvignac, which he did, grasping his hand with emotion and leading him
into a corner of the room.

Alas! the whole thing was only an infamous conspiracy to ruin the young
man. The Belgian capitalist, this count apparently so respectable, was
only an expert card-sharper whom Chauvignac had brought from Paris to
play out the vile tragi-comedy, the denouement of which would be the
ruin of the unfortunate Olivier.

At the mo