ould you
believe it, Chevalier? the dishonourable knave, who owed all he had to
me, tried to deny the debt, and on being compelled by the court to pay
me, reproached me with being a villainous miser? I could tell you more
such like cases; and these things have made me hard and insensible to
emotion when I have to deal with folly and baseness. Nay, more--I could
tell you of the many bitter tears I have wiped away, and of the many
prayers which have gone up to Heaven for me and my Angela, but you
would only regard it as empty boasting, and pay not the slightest heed
to it, for you are a gambler. I thought I had satisfied the resentment
of Heaven; it was but a delusion, for Satan has been permitted to
lead me astray in a more disastrous way than before. I heard of your
good-luck. Chevalier. Every day I heard that this man and that had
staked and staked at your bank until he became a beggar. Then the
thought came into my mind that I was destined to try my gambler's luck,
which had never hitherto deserted me, against yours, that the power was
given me to put a stop to your practices; and this thought, which could
only have been engendered by some extraordinary madness, left me no
rest, no peace. Hence I came to your bank; and my terrible infatuation
did not leave me until all my property--all my Angela's property--was
yours. And now the end has come. I presume you will allow my daughter
to take her clothing with her?'

"'Your daughter's wardrobe does not concern me,' replied the Chevalier.
'You may also take your beds and other necessary household utensils,
and such like; for what could I do with all the old lumber? But see to
it that nothing of value of the things which now belong to me get mixed
up with it.'

"Old Vertua stared at the Chevalier a second or two utterly speechless;
then a flood of tears burst from his eyes, and he sank upon his knees
in front of the Chevalier, perfectly upset with trouble and despair,
and raised his hands crying, 'Chevalier, have you still a spark of
human feeling left in your breast? Be merciful, merciful. It is not I,
but my daughter, my Angela, my innocent angelic child, whom you are
plunging into ruin. Oh! be merciful to _her_; lend _her_, _her_, my
Angela, the twentieth part of the property you have deprived her of.
Oh! I know you will listen to my entreaty! O Angela! my daughter!' And
therewith the old man sobbed and lamented and moaned, calling upon his
child by name in the most hea