Presently they got up, went arm-in-arm up the grand staircase, and re-entered the salle de jeu. The count was no longer there, but they soon discovered him standing in his former position on the balcony, indulging in a smoke under the stars. He had lost, he said; his luck had forsaken him after Valérie had left the table.
Then they told him of the suggestion to play at the hotel—a proposition to which he immediately acquiesced.
Hugh Trethowen, truth to tell, cared very little about games of chance, but for the amusement of his idol he was prepared to make any sacrifice.
An hour before midnight the four assembled in a private sitting-room at the Hôtel de l'Europe. Pierre Rouillier—or Adolphe Chavoix, as he was now called by his fellow-adventurers—had procured a piece of billiard chalk, and marked the table at which they were to play. The heavy curtains of the windows overlooking the street were drawn, and over the gas lamp was a lace shade which caused a soft, subdued light to fall upon the table, while opposite the windows was a large mirror reaching from the wainscot to the ceiling.
"Who'll be banker?" asked Adolphe, as they seated themselves.
"Why, Hugh, of course," replied the count. "He's had all the luck to-night. Come, m'sieur, sit over there, and start the bank with your winnings," he added, addressing Hugh.
"Ah, my dear Count, I expect my luck will change," laughed Trethowen good-humoredly.
And, placing a chair for Valérie by his side, he took the seat indicated. He was not a practised card-player, neither did any apprehension of dishonest dealing cross his mind.
