Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“Few will be found to ask for such concession,” said the Duke, tartly. “Let us have no more trifling, but begin.”

“I back the Duke,” said Linton, opening his pocket-book, and taking out a roll of bank-notes. “Whatever I have touched to-night has gone luckily with me, and I am sure to bring him good fortune.”

“If I might ask a favor, Monsieur,” said the Duke, “it would be to leave me to deal single-handed with my destiny.”

“As you please, my Lord,” said Linton, gayly. “If you will not accept me as ally, you must have me as adversary. Charley, make room for me beside you,” continued he, addressing a man whose haggard cheek and deep sunken eye could scarcely recall the features of Lord Charles Frobisher.

“He’s in for it,” muttered Frobisher, as Linton seated himself at his side.

“We shall see,” said Linton, calmly, arranging his notebook before him. Meanwhile, Rica was busily engaged in counting out to the Duke the heavy sum of the purchase. This occupied a considerable time, during which Linton amused the others with a running fire of that gossipry which goes the round of Parisian society, and takes in the world of politics, of literature, of art, and of morals. The eventful period was full of rumors, and none knew better than Linton how to exalt some into certainty, and degrade others into mere absurdity. “If the bank wins,” said he, laughingly, at the close of some observation on the condition of parties, “our friend Rica will be the last Duke in Europe.”

“Bah!” said an officer of the Royal Guard, “grape and canister are just as effectual as ever they were; there is nothing to be apprehended from the mob. Two battalions of infantry and a squadron of hussars will carry the ‘ordinances,’ if the ministry but give the order.”

“I wish they would begin the game,” said Frobisher, querulously, for he took no interest in any topic but that of play.

“Has any one given orders that the doors shall be close-barred and locked?” said another. “The police will be here presently.”

“What should bring the police here, sir?” said Linton, turning suddenly towards the speaker with a look of almost insolent defiance.

“They are making perquisitions everywhere the last few days,” said the youth, abashed by the tone and manner of the question.

“Ah! so they are – very true. I beg your pardon,” cried Linton, affecting a smile. “We are so intent upon our game here, that one actually forgets what is occurring in the greater game that is playing without.”

“If there ‘s to be no more play I ‘m off to bed,” yawned Frobisher, as he stretched himself along the chairs. A group had meanwhile gathered round a table where refreshments and wine were laid out, and were invigorating themselves for the coming campaign.

“I remember the last séance with closed doors I assisted at,” said a handsome middle-aged man, with a gray moustache, and short-cut gray hair, “was in the stable at Fontainebleau. We played for seventeen hours, and when we separated we discovered that the Empire was at an end, and the Emperor departed!”

“We might do something of the same kind now, Blancharde,” said another; “it would be no difficult matter, I fancy, to play an old dynasty out and a new one in at this moment.”

“Hush, Rozlan! Marsac is not one ‘of us,’” whispered the former, cautiously.

“He ‘s going the shortest way to become so, notwithstanding. Nothing enlarges the sphere of political vision like being ruined! One always becomes liberal, in the political sense, when it is impossible to be so in any other!”

The chatting now turned on the events that were then impending, a great diversity of opinion existing as to whether the King would insist upon carrying the “ordinances,” and a still wider divergence as to what result would follow. During this discussion, Frobisher’s impatience went beyond all control, and at last he rose, declaring that he would remain no longer.

“You forget that the doors are locked for twenty-four hours, sir,” said another, “and neither can any one leave or enter the room before that time.”

“We are more sacred than a privy council or a chapter of the knights of St. Louis,” said Rozlan.

“Now then to see who is the next Duc de Marlier!” whispered Linton in Rica’s ear. “Let us begin.”

“One word with you, Linton,” whispered Rica; “don’t bet high, it distracts my attention, – make a mere game of amusement, for this will be a hard struggle, and it must be the last.”

“So I perceive,” rejoined Linton; “events are coming fast; we must be off ere the tide overtake us.”

“The game, the game!” cried Frobisher, striking the table with his rake.

“And Maritaña?” whispered Linton, holding Rica by the arm.

The other grew lividly pale, and his lip quivered as he said, “Is this the time, Linton – ”

“It is the very time,” rejoined the other, determinedly, “and I will have my answer now. You cannot equivocate with me.”

“I do not seek to do so. I have told you always what I tell you still – I cannot coerce her.”

“There will be no need; this dukedom will do the business. I know her well – better than you do. See, they are watching us yonder. Say the word at once – it is agreed.”

“Hear me, Linton – ”

“I ‘ll hear nothing; save the one word ‘agreed.’”

“Let me but explain – ”

“There is nothing to explain. The betrothal you allude to is, as none knows better than yourself, an idle ceremony; and if she loves the fellow, so much the more urgent are the reasons for my request. Be quick, I say.”

“If she consent – ”

“She shall. My Lord Duke, a thousand pardons, I beg, for this delay; but Rica has been tormenting me these ten minutes by the refusal of a petty favor. He is become reasonable at last; and now for the combat!”

The party seated themselves like men about to witness an exciting event; and although each had his venture on the game, the Duke was the great object of interest, and speculation was high as to how the struggle was to end.

It is no part of our object to follow the changing fortunes of that long contest, nor watch the vacillating chances which alternately elevated to hope and lowered to very desperation. Before the day began to dawn, every player, save the Duke, had ceased to bet. Some, worn out and exhausted, had sunk to sleep upon the rich ottomans; others, drinking deep of champagne, seemed anxious to forget everything. Frobisher, utterly ruined, sat in the same place at the table, mechanically marking the game, on which he had no longer a stake, and muttering exclamations of joy or disappointment at imaginary gains and losses, for he still fancied that he was betting large sums, and participating in all the varying emotions of a gambler’s life.

The luck of the bank continued. Play how he would, boldly “back the color,” or try to suit the fitful fortunes of the game, the Duke went on losing.

Were such an ordeal one to evoke admiration, it could scarcely be withheld from him, who, with an unwearied brain and unbroken temper, sat patiently there, fighting foot to foot, contesting every inch of ground, and even in defeat, preserving the calm equanimity of his high breeding.

Behind his chair stood Linton, – a flush of triumph on his cheek as he continued to behold the undeviating course of luck that attended the bank, “Another deal like that,” muttered he, “and I shall quarter the arms of Marlier with Linton.”

The words were scarcely uttered, when a deep sigh broke from the Duke – it was the first that had escaped him – and he buried his head between his hands. Rica looked over at Linton, and a slight, almost imperceptible, motion of his eyebrows signalled that the battle was nigh over.

“Well! how is the game? Am I betting? – what’s the color?” said the Duke, passing his clammy hand across his brow.

“I am waiting for you, my Lord Duke,” said Rica, obsequiously.

“I am ready – quite ready,” cried the other. “Am I the only player? I fancied that some others were betting. Where’s my Lord Charles? – ah! I see him. And Mr. Linton – is he gone?”

“He has just left the room, my Lord Duke. Will you excuse me if I follow him for an instant?” And at the same moment Rica arose, and left the chamber with hasty steps.

It was at the end of a long corridor, tapping gently at a door, Linton stood, as Rica came up.

“What! is’t over already?” said Linton, with a look of angry impatience.

“This is not fair, Linton!” said Rica, endeavoring to get nearest to the door.

“What is not fair?” said the other, imperiously. “You told me awhile ago that she must pronounce, herself, upon her own future. Well, I am willing to leave it to that issue.”

“But she is unfit to do so at present,” said Rica, entreat-ingly. “You know well how unsettled is her mind, and how wandering are her faculties. There are moments when she scarcely knows me– her father.”