the silver?"

"No; I could buy them at that price at the 'Cafe Morisot,' Rue de la
Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little cheaper." And, so
saying, he showed to the guilt-stricken Gambouge how the name of that
coffee-house was inscribed upon every one of the articles which he
wished to pawn.

The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh! how fearful is
retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for
crime--_when crime is found out!_--otherwise, conscience takes matters
much more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be
virtuous.

"But, hark ye, my friend," continued the honest broker, "there is no
reason why, because I cannot lend upon these things, I should not buy
them: they will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have
half the money?--speak, or I peach."

Simon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instantaneously. "Give
me half," he said, "and let me go.--What scoundrels are these
pawnbrokers!" ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop,
"seeking every wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won
gain."

When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gambouge counted the
money which he had received, and found that he was in possession of no
less than a hundred francs. It was night, as he reckoned out his
equivocal gains, and he counted them at the light of a lamp. He looked
up at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue: upon
it was inscribed the simple number, 152. "A gambling-house," thought
Gambouge. "I WISH I had half the money that is now on the table, up
stairs."

He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a
hundred persons busy at a table of _rouge et noir_. Gambouge's five
napoleons looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were
around him; but the effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the
detection by the pawnbroker, were upon him, and he threw down his
capital stoutly upon the 0 0.

It is a dangerous spot that 0 0, or double zero; but to Simon it was
more lucky than to the rest of the world. The ball went spinning
round--in "its predestined circle rolled," as Shelley has it, after
Goethe--and plumped down at last in the double zero. One hundred and
thirty-five gold napoleons (louis they were then) were counted out to
the delighted painter. "Oh, Diabolus!" cried he, "now it is that I
begin to believe in thee! Don't talk about merit," he cried; "talk
about fortune. Te