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“Pardon the abruptness of the inquiry, but who was the woman in black?” I asked.

He looked at me curiously.

“Ah, you mean madame with the bag?”

“Yes.”

“She was once the Baroness Frontignac.”

“Was once! What is she now?”

“Now? Ah, that is quite a story.” He stopped, shut the gold case with a click, and leaned forward, flicking the pebbles with the point of his cane. “If madame had had a larger bag she might have broken the bank. Is it not so?”

“You know her, then?” I persisted.

“Monsieur, men of my profession know everybody. Sooner or later they all come to us–when they are young, and their francs have wings; when they are gray-haired and cautious; when they are old and foolish.”

“But she did not look like a gambler,” I replied stiffly.

He smiled his old cynical, treacherous smile.

“Monsieur is pleased to be very pronounced in his language. A gambler! Monsieur no doubt means to say that madame has not the appearance of being under the intoxication of the play.” Then with a positive tone, still flicking the pebbles, “The baroness played for love.”

“Of the cards?” I asked persistently. I was determined to drive the nail to the head.

The croupier looked at me fixedly, shrugged his shoulders, laughed between his teeth, a little, hissing laugh that sounded like escaping steam, and said slowly:–

“No; of a man.”

Then, noticing my increasing interest, “Monsieur would know something of madame?”

He held up his hand, and began crooking one finger after another as he recounted her history. These bent keys, it seemed, unlocked secrets as well.

“Le voila! the drama of Madame la Baronne! The play opens when she is first a novice in the convent of Saint Ursula, devoted to good works and the church. Next you find her a grand dame and rich, the wife of Baron Alphonse de Frontignac, first secretary of legation at Vienna. Then a mother with one child,–a boy, now six or seven years old, who is hardly ever out of her arms.” He stopped, toyed for a moment with his match-safe, slipped it into his pocket, and said carelessly, “So much for Act I.”

Then, after a pause during which he traced again little diagrams in the gravel, he said suddenly:–

“Does this really interest you, monsieur?”

“Unquestionably.”

“You know her, then?” This with a glance of suspicion as keen as it was unexpected by me.

“Never saw her in my life before,” I answered frankly, “and never shall again. I leave for Paris to-day, and sail from Havre on Saturday.”

He drew in the point of his cane, looked me all over with one of those comprehensive sweeps of the eye, as if he would read my inmost thought, and then, with an expression of confidence born doubtless of my evident sincerity, continued:–

“In the next act Frontignac gets mixed up in some banking scandals,–he would, like a fool, play roulette–baccarat was always his strong game,–disappears from Vienna, is arrested at the frontier, escapes, and is found the next morning under a brush-heap with a bullet through his head. This ends the search. Two years later–this is now Act III.–Madame la Baronne, without a sou to her name, is hard at work in the hospitals of Metz. The child is pensioned out near by.

“Now comes the grand romance. An officer attached to the 13th Cuirassiers–a regiment with not men enough left after Metz to muster a company–is picked up for dead, with one arm torn off, and a sabre-slash over his head, and brought to her ward. She nurses him back to life, inch by inch, and in six months he joins his regiment. Now please follow the plot. It is quite interesting. Is it not easy to see what will happen? Tender and beautiful, young and brave! Vive le bel amour! It is the old story, but it is also une affaire de coeur–la grande passion. In a few months they are married, and he takes her to his home in Rouen. There he listens to her entreaties, and resigns his commission.