ded again by Brinon, his valet, equerry, and
Mentor in one. Next in De Grammont's narrative came his adventure at
Lyons, where he spent the 200 louis his mother had given Brinon for him,
in play, and very nearly broke the poor old servant's heart; where he
had duped a horse-dealer; and he ended by proposing plans, similarly
_honourable_, to be adopted for their present emergencies.

The first step was to go to head-quarters, to dine with a certain Count
de Cameran, a Savoyard, and invite him to supper. Here Matta interposed.
'Are you mad?' he exclaimed. 'Invite him to supper! we have neither
money nor credit; we are ruined; and to save us you intend to give a
supper!'

'Stupid fellow!' cried De Grammont. 'Cameran plays at quinze: so do I:
we want money. He has more than he knows what to do with: we give a
supper, he pays for it. However,' he added, 'it is necessary to take
certain precautions. You command the Guards: when night comes on, order
your _Sergent-de-place_ to have fifteen or twenty men under arms, and
let them lay themselves flat on the ground between this and
head-quarters. Most likely we shall win this stupid fellow's money. Now
the Piedmontese are suspicious, and he commands the Horse. Now, you
know, Matta, you cannot hold your tongue, and are very likely to let out
some joke that will vex him. Supposing he takes it into his head that he
is being cheated? He has always eight or ten horsemen: we must be
prepared.'

'Embrace me!' cried Matta, 'embrace me! for thou art unparalleled. I
thought you only meant to prepare a pack of cards, and some false dice.
But the idea of protecting a man who plays at quinze by a detachment of
foot is excellent: thine own, dear Chevalier.'

Thus, like some of Dumas' heroes, hating villany as a matter of course,
but being by no means ashamed to acknowledge it, the Piedmontese was
asked to supper. He came. Nevertheless, in the midst of the affair, when
De Cameran was losing as fast as he could, Matta's conscience touched
him: he awoke from a deep sleep, heard the dice shaking, saw the poor
Savoyard losing, and advised him to play no more.

'Don't you know, Count, you _cannot_ win?'

'Why?' asked the Count.

'Why, faith, because we are cheating you,' was the reply.

The Chevalier turned round impatiently, 'Sieur Matta,' he cried, 'do you
suppose it can be any amusement to Monsieur le Comte to be plagued with
your ill-timed jests? For my part, I am so weary of the game, t