ough the mouth of man. '_On parole_,' said I, 'for I have no money
with me.' '_Pardieu_, said the Count, 'people like ourselves never have
more than fifty thousand francs in our pocket-books. _Parole_ is our
cash, and none but citizens and bankers, who are loaded with gold like
mules in Guatemala, have any thing else. Your word is good for five
hundred thousand francs, and I will take it for cash.' I felt an icy
coldness run through my veins and stop at my very heart. I played again,
and again I lost and won again. An hour afterwards I owed sixty thousand
francs to the Count de Nangis. 'What is the matter?' said he ironically,
'are you ill.' 'The heat,' said I, rising, 'is excessive; and if you
please we will stop here.' 'As you please,' said the Count; 'and
to-morrow you shall have your revenge.' 'To-morrow, then, be it,' said
I. My head was hot, yet a cold perspiration stood on my brow; my sight
became troubled, my legs quailed, and I saw before me the terrible
spectacle of dishonor. He at last had his enemy in his power, and was
about to doom him to infamy. Two words seemed written before my eyes,
and by their aspect terrified me. Those two words contained all I had to
fear and apprehend--they were worse to me than death. These words were a
contract of honor, a sacred article in even the gambler's code. These
words had been pronounced by the Count as he pushed his money towards
me: they were '_on parole_.' I went to my hotel--for I had not yet left
the modest room I had inhabited while a more comfortable suite was being
prepared--and gave way to despair. 'My name disgraced!' cried I, 'the
name of the Prince de Maulear, which has been pure and honored for so
many centuries, made vile and disgraced by a miserable debt of sixty
thousand francs, a sum once scarcely to be considered as a fraction of
the revenues of my family!' There was no one by to aid me--no one to
whom I could own my fault, my remorse, and my despair. Day came, and the
horror of my situation increased as the fatal hour drew near. Unable to
resist this frightful torment I said, 'No! I will not live dishonored; I
will not bear a disgraced, shameful, and dishonored life.' I went to the
table and wrote: 'I owe to the Count de Nangis the sum of 60,000 francs,
for which I bequeath him all the profits ever likely to accrue to me
from my property in France. Here, when I am about to die, I enjoin my
son to discharge this debt of honor by every means in his power.'