s he was, there was nothing he hated and
detested more than miserliness, he made up his mind to put his
traducers to shame by ransoming himself from this foul aspersion at the
cost of a couple of hundred _Louis d'or_, or even more if need be,
however much disgusted he might feel at gambling. He presented himself
at the faro-bank with the deliberate intention of losing the large sum
which he had put in his pocket; but in play also the good luck which
stood by him in everything he undertook did not prove unfaithful. Every
card he chose won. The cabalistic calculations of seasoned old players
were shivered to atoms against the Baron's play. No matter whether he
changed his cards or continued to stake on[1] the same one, it was all
the same: he was always a winner. In the Baron they had the singular
spectacle of a punter at variance with himself because the cards fell
favourable for him; and notwithstanding that the explanation of his
behaviour was pretty patent, yet people looked at each other
significantly and gave utterance in no ambiguous terms to the opinion
that the Baron, carried along by his penchant for the marvellous, might
eventually become insane, for any player who could be dismayed at his
run of luck must surely be insane.

The very fact of having won a considerable sum of money made it
obligatory upon the Baron to go on playing until he should have carried
out his original purpose; for in all probability his large win would be
followed by a still larger loss. But people's expectations were not in
the remotest degree realised, for the Baron's striking good-luck
continued to attend him.

Without his being conscious of it, there began to be awakened in his
mind a strong liking for faro, which with all its simplicity is the
most ominous of games; and this liking continued to increase more and
more. He was no longer dissatisfied with his good-luck; gambling
fettered his attention and held him fast to the table for nights and
nights, so that he was perforce compelled to give credence to the
peculiar attraction of the game, of which his friends had formerly
spoken and which he would by no means allow to be correct, for he was
attracted to faro not by the thirst for gain, but simply and solely by
the game itself.

One night, just as the banker had finished a _taille_, the Baron
happened to raise his eyes and observed that an elderly man had taken
post directly opposite to him and had got his eyes fixed upon him in