FullReads

“I do not intend to dance, monsieur.”

The curt tone of the lady’s replies was so discouraging that the Colonel found himself compelled to raise the siege. Martial, who guessed what the officer’s last request had been, and the refusal he had met with, began to smile, and stroked his chin, making the diamond sparkle which he wore on his finger.

“What are you laughing at?” said the Comtesse de Vaudremont.

“At the failure of the poor Colonel, who has just put his foot in it—-“

“I begged you to take your ring off,” said the Countess, interrupting him.

“I did not hear you.”

“If you can hear nothing this evening, at any rate you see everything, Monsieur le Baron,” said Madame de Vaudremont, with an air of vexation.

“That young man is displaying a very fine diamond,” the stranger remarked to the Colonel.

“Splendid,” he replied. “The man is the Baron Martial de la Roche-Hugon, one of my most intimate friends.”

“I have to thank you for telling me his name,” she went on; “he seems an agreeable man.”

“Yes, but he is rather fickle.”

“He seems to be on the best terms with the Comtesse de Vaudremont?” said the lady, with an inquiring look at the Colonel.

“On the very best.”

The unknown turned pale.

“Hallo!” thought the soldier, “she is in love with that lucky devil Martial.”

“I fancied that Madame de Vaudremont had long been devoted to M. de Soulanges,” said the lady, recovering a little from the suppressed grief which had clouded the fairness of her face.

“For a week past the Countess has been faithless,” replied the Colonel. “But you must have seen poor Soulanges when he came in; he is till trying to disbelieve in his disaster.”

“Yes, I saw him,” said the lady. Then she added, “Thank you very much, monsieur,” in a tone which signified a dismissal.

At this moment the quadrille was coming to an end. Montcornet had only time to withdraw, saying to himself by way of consolation, “She is married.”

“Well, valiant Cuirassier,” exclaimed the Baron, drawing the Colonel aside into a window-bay to breathe the fresh air from the garden, “how are you getting on?”

“She is a married woman, my dear fellow.”

“What does that matter?”

“Oh, deuce take it! I am a decent sort of man,” replied the Colonel. “I have no idea of paying my addresses to a woman I cannot marry. Besides, Martial, she expressly told me that she did not intend to dance.”

“Colonel, I will bet a hundred napoleons to your gray horse that she will dance with me this evening.”

“Done!” said the Colonel, putting his hand in the coxcomb’s. “Meanwhile I am going to look for Soulanges; he perhaps knows the lady, as she seems interested in him.”

“You have lost, my good fellow,” cried Martial, laughing. “My eyes have met hers, and I know what they mean. My dear friend, you owe me no grudge for dancing with her after she has refused you?”

“No, no. Those who laugh last, laugh longest. But I am an honest gambler and a generous enemy, Martial, and I warn you, she is fond of diamonds.”

With these words the friends parted; General Montcornet made his way to the cardroom, where he saw the Comte de Soulanges sitting at a /bouillotte/ table. Though there was no friendship between the two soldiers, beyond the superficial comradeship arising from the perils of war and the duties of the service, the Colonel of Cuirassiers was painfully struck by seeing the Colonel of Artillery, whom he knew to be a prudent man, playing at a game which might bring him to ruin. The heaps of gold and notes piled on the fateful cards showed the frenzy of play. A circle of silent men stood round the players at the table. Now and then a few words were spoken–/pass, play, I stop, a thousand Louis, taken/–but, looking at the five motionless men, it seemed as though they talked only with their eyes. As the Colonel, alarmed by Soulanges’ pallor, went up to him, the Count was winning. Field-Marshal the Duc d’Isemberg, Keller, and a famous banker rose from the table completely cleaned out of considerable sums. Soulanges looked gloomier than ever as he swept up a quantity of gold and notes; he did not even count it; his lips curled with bitter scorn, he seemed to defy fortune rather than be grateful for her favors.