University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

A crisis had now arrived in the play and the interest of the spectators became
intense and feverish. There were dark faces with fierce mustaches
and glittering eyes thrust towards the table, nervous hands moving in rapid
gesticulations, and deep murmuring voices. The bankress sat silent and
motionless as a statue of marble; her eyes fixed upon the calm countenance
of young Winter. A concentrated light burned in her eyes, and a
stern defiance mingled with fear, was stamped upon her rigid features.
Who could he be who had thus humbled her power? What might was his
who could thus control the fate of chances! To her mind he seemed a supernatural
person, sent to punish her avarice which had slain so many a
noble youth like himself. She sat silent, leaning upon her silver wand. The
calm unmoved face of Winter, presented a striking contrast to her own.
It wore a look of dignity and self-possession which such extraordinary successors
instinctively gave to him, and there was an expression of calm decision
about his mouth which told that he felt within him confidence and
power. It is success that hegets success.

The murmurs of surprise had not yet subsided, which followed his last
winning, when he raised his eyes and fixed them firmly upon the pale aspect
of the bankress, who was regarding him with a look as if she felt he
held her destiny in his hands.

`I am ready, Mademoiselle!' he said in an even tone that was singularly
marked amid the buzz of those around him; for each player had now got
to feel the affair to be his own, and to take an absorbing interest in every
step that should now be taken. Every young man had his `revenges,' and
Winter seemed to them the chosen instrument. But all trembled for the
result; now that a single false bet would restore to the bank all it had lost,
and hurl their champion from his throne of power. They saw that he was
bold, resolute and cool, and that he would stake the whole four hundred
thousand francs upon a single card as he had done before! The excitement
of their feelings therefore rose in proportion to the enormous risk he
was about to make. One spoke and advised him to play but half; another
to stake but a fourth of the sum; a third counselled him to cease playing, for
he had sufficiently avenged his predecessors.

`Messieurs,' said Winter, turning round to them with a bland smile, `I am
obliged to you for your interest in my playing; but I beg you will leave the
game to my own hands. I assure you, you will not regret the issue!'

The tone of independence in which he spoke, was responded to by a low
murmur of applause to which succeeded a deep and expecting silence.
Every eye was alternately fixed upon the countenance of the successful
player and that of the bankress. She had not replied to his remark, that he
was ready. Her lip was agitated and her hand trembled.

`Winter,' cried Ellis, taking his arm and speaking with deep earnestness,
do not bet again. Be satisfied with the enormous sums you have won!'

`Let Monsieur bet!' cried the bankress in an imperious tone, and with a
flashing glance; for she thought she had seen a hesitation in his manner as
he was spoken to; and though trembling for the result, she felt she would
rather risk La dix-septieme than he should cease playing, with four hundred
thousand francs winning, in his possession.

`I shall bet again, Mademoiselle!' answered the young man very positively.

`It is impossible there should be a dix-septieme!' she said faintly, as if to
reassure herself; for his boldness and air of confidence took away her own.
She glanced round at the anxious countenances of the group of bankers
who had with the players deserted their tables, to gather around hers.

`It is impossible there should be la dix-septieme!' they answered all together.

`Impossible!' she answered, with more assurance.

`Is Mademoiselle ready?' asked the young American, resting his eyes upon
her marble visage, where agitated passions were working every feature.

`Courage, madame!' cried several bankers.

`I fear not, Messieurs,' she responded in a hoarse accent. She took a
fresh pack of cards, carefully shuffled them and was about placing them in
the gold box. There was a hushed silence. The beating of men's hearts
could be distinctly heard.

`I will take the cards for a moment also,' said Winter; and extending his
hand, he received them from hers, while she looked as if she would have
struck a dagger at his heart. He had seen a rapid glance exchanged between
her and one of the bankers who had handed her the cards, and he
suspected foul-doing. He was not mistaken. On running over the cards
he found that the card on which he had betten—the ace of clubs—was not
in the pack. There was a murmur of indignation on this discovery; and
casting the cards upon the floor, the young winner took a second pack,
which after examining he placed upon the marble before her. She also
closely examined the cards and then closed the lid of the box upon them.
Holding it in her left hand and her right finger and thumb, prepared to off
the first card, she looked up. Her looks were like those of a fiend in female
form. Winter involuntarily shrunk from the gaze she fixed upon him.
Phrenzied hope, fierce despair, rage, horror and hatred were all mingled
in it.

`What does Monsieur bet?'

`Four hundred thousand francs!'

`Bien!' she answered, and prepared to lift the card.

`But I must first know that I am betting against the full value of my
stake!' he said firmly. `Show madame, that your bank has this capital!'

With a sneer of infernal rage and malice she said, opening a box by her
side:

`There, Monsieur, is a package of notes containing one hundred thousand
francs. There are certificates of deposite in bank, to the amount of
two hundred and fifty thousand more. Here upon the table are rouleaus of
gold to make up the sum!'

`I am satisfied. Place the notes, certificates and rouleaus there, opposite
my own. Now madame, I am ready!, The silence of death followed his
words! Slowly yet with the strong energy of despair, the bankress one by one
dealt off the cards from the top of the box. A cannon might have been discharged
in the salon, and the spectators would not have known it. Every
eye followed the cards upon the issue of which was to depend the fate of
the bank—the power of the enchantress.

All at once she paused in her dealing off; and looked round with a
ghastly empresse, effort to smile, as she said inquiringly, in a hollow tone:

`It is impossible Messieurs, there should be la dix-septieme!'

There was no reply. Winter smiled proudly. He was not sure of success,
but he seemed to himself borne onward by some irresistible destiny.
He thought not of losing! He was calm, confident, self-possessed.

`It is impossible that there should be the seventeenth!' she said repeating
her words to herself, and then slowly resumed the dealing. Winter could

not help feeling emotion, as the cards one by one were taken off, and each
instant the crisis of his fate and that of the bank drew nigh.

Suddenly a piercing shriek from the bankress confirmed what all eyes at
the same instant beheld. The winning card—the fatal ace of clubs! had won!
La dix-septieme had broken the bank!

There was a moment's silence, as if from awe and astonishment among
the spectators. It was followed by a loud shout of triumphant applause, in
which were mingled the curses of the co-bankers. The ruined bankress
rose from her chair, placed the four hundred thuosand francs upon the pile
which lay before the winner, and then quicker then lightning, plunged a
small knife into her heart! The face and hands and a heap of gold of the
victor were sprinkled with her red life-blood, and she falling headlong forward,
clutched wildly at the notes and coin she had lost; and sinking upon
them gathered them in her arms, in a dying embrace, and so expired!

A cry of horror thrilled all present, and the triumph of the victor was
clouded by this fearful tragedy. Winter gazed upon the corpse, with a feeling
of terror, and after it was removed, he stood in silence surveying his
wealth, stained with the blood of her who had once possessed it. He felt
no exultation—no delight. A stupor seemed to seize upon him and to leave
him for a few minutes incapable of appreciating what had transpired. The
excitement (for his excitement while playing, had been intense though inward
nor outwardly visible) had passed, and left him in a state of mind like
vacancy. He was roused by Ellis.

`Come, Winter, let us leave this place! I will assist you in taking away
your money; and one of the bankers here will give you bank notes for this
heap of gold. You have won at least one hundred and ninety thousand
dollars!'

`Well?' responded Winter absently.

`Dont yield to such feelings. The girl has met a just retribution! She
has caused the death of half a dozen! You have only avenged them!'

`What have I to do with avenging them?' he demanded in a husky voice,
his hand resting upon the table, and his eyes fixed upon the pile of blood
stained gold he had won.

`Monsieur's mind seems insensible,' remarked a Frenchman to Ellis; `it
is too great a fortune to be borne.'

`I am not overcome by my gains, Monsieur,' said frank solemnly; `but
I am overcome with the consciousness of having been the murderer of that
female!'

`Ah, parbleu, Monsieur!' answered a French officer near, shrugging his
shoulders and twisting fiercely his mustache; `She was a murderess! She
has perished well. You have our gratitude, Monsieur!'

`Yes, and I have the weight of her blood upon my conscience! Ellis.'

`My dear friend!'

`I will touch none of that gold! 'Tis the price of her blood!'

`You are mad!'

`No I am perfectly sane!'

`You will not leave it!' he cried in astonishment.

`No I will not have it either! But I will not profit by it! I shall come
here to-morrow night. I must lose it again, I cannot keep it! 'Tis her life!
I have slain her, Ellis, and I feel I shall not rest while I retain one franc I
have won from her!'

`You will take it up?'

`No, touch not a coin! 'Tis bloody! Let it lay. I will get rid of it at once
and relieve my soul! Ho, Messieurs bankers!' he shouted to the four or five
managers of the salon. `Here, upon the table are eight hundred thousand
francs! I am here ready to stake it all upon one card, if you will accept my
bet!'

`You are a fool or mad,' cried Ellis; and without being observed by his
friend, prudently resolving not to lose all, he transferred to his person a
note for five thousand francs; the possession of which the more easily reconciled
him to the loss of the rest.

`I am acting as my own friend in doing this,' he answered quietly. `Had
she not killed herself, I should have retained the money. I cannot do it
now Ellis. I wouldn't purchase a cigar with a single sou of what I have
won. It shall go back to the bank! I will have no bloody coin.

The bankers after conversing apart a few moments, approached him.

`Monsieur,' said the chief; `we are willing to accept the bet, provided
you will bet on any other card than the ace of clubs!'

`I will bet upon the knave, messieurs.'

The cards were arranged. The bankers took their stations around their
head. The players gathered about the table, looking upon Winter in the
light of an insane man. All eagerly watched the result.

`La premiere!' shouted the banker as the cards announced the bank the
winner; and taking the silver wand in his hand, he struck the heap of gold
and notes before Winter, to mark them as his own.

`Come, Ellis! I am relieved of a great load. Let it go! We are, as
when we came in—save—save that girl's life!'

`Ellis made no reply. He was angry and disappointed. He had hoped
to share a large portion of his friend's winnings. In imagination he saw
himself revelling in wealth, the commodore of a gun-sloop of his own, roving
the seas at will, seeking adventure. These visions were dissipated.—
He had discreetly got a note of value into his hands, to keep it from being
swallowed up in the vortex into which the remainder had been hurled by
Winter, and this in a measure relieved his mind. But in his heart he cursed
his friend for his folly.

Together they left the hall. Both were silent. They passed through the
long mosaic paved passage and were let into the street by the old janitor.
It was already dawn of day; and the sight of the crimson east told Winter
that he had spent a night in play. It had seemed to him but a few moments.
It appeared to him now, all like a dream. The playing; the winning seventeen
times in succession; the vast amounts won; the suicide of the bankress,
all appeared like a dream when it is passed. He found it difficult to
realize it; and was about to ask Ellis if such things had taken place, and he
had been in reality an actor in these scenes, when the sight of blood upon
his wrist-bands, sealed their reality.

`I am an assassin!' he cried, covering his face with his hands.

Ellis made no remark. He hated him, and was willing he should be as
miserable as he chose to be. He made no attempt to alleviate his feelings.
He inwardly rejoiced at his sufferings. He assumed too, a different air.
He walked by his side with a bolder and more haughty tread. He threw off
his air of dependence and money-needy air. He began to feel himself so
superior that he was deliberating whether he had not best show his indignation
and contempt by cutting his acquaintance; and he felt in his pocket
for the safety of the note for five thousand francs he had prudently possessed
himself off; well knowing it would be long before, among so much money,
it would be missed.

They walked along together for some time in silence. By degrees Winter
recovered his serenity. The cheerful sun-rising, the fresh morning
breeze, the songs of birds, all revived him. He resolved to banish his
feelings and regard the past night as a dream. He felt no regret for the loss
of his money. He still felt he had done right. A feeling of pain remained
for the death of the bankress; but he reasoned upon it; and as he did so, acquitted
himself of the act, for which, in the first moments of the fearful deed
he had become his own accuser.

Their way, for they did not proceed at that early hour at once to the hotel,
led them round by the ramparts near the quay. Here Winter stopped,
and taking off his cap, let the sea breeze blow upon his head. The scene
was beautiful, gilded with the morning beams. The distant sea shore like
silver, bore many a snow-white bark upon its bosom. The hills around
were verdant and diversified with villas, convents and towers; the harbor
was studded with ships of war and commerce, decked with the flags of all
nations, and riding at anchor, or getting under way; moving in various directions.
A thin veil of blue smoke rested above the water, upon which it
had settled from the discharge of the sun-rise guns from the batteries and
ships of war. The blue sky above was without a cloud. The branches of
a few orange trees that grew upon the rampart, rustled whisperingly in the
air. All was peaceful, and insensibly drew the young man out of himself
and his gloomy thoughts. He walked apart from Ellis, who was busily cogitating
within himself, how he should get his five thousand franc bill exchanged,
and leave Marseilles unknown to his friend.

As Winter paced up and down the rampart, his thoughts stole insensibly
homeward; and the image of his mother and of Grace Ellingwood became
vividly present. Tears came into his eyes mingled with sweet emotions,
over all of which rose a sense of degredation and unworthiness. Such had
been his infatuation for play, that not even the oft recurring recollection of
Grace, could restrain him. He felt he was doing that which she would condemn,
and yet he blindly pursued the course which would degrade him in
her eyes as well as in his own. But he felt that he departed from her motives
of integrity and truth of character, by resigning his commission, and
engaging in a duel. It was perhaps this feeling that made him reckless of
what followed. He however secretly determined that if Grace forgave his
resignation, he would check at once his course and live worthy of her esteem.
Every day since he had been in Marseilles he had said at least once,

`When I hear from Grace, and my money comes, I will stop and reform.
I will leave Ellis, and live so as to respect myself; for now I feel degraded!'

The recollection of these resolutions now came befere his mind as he
paced the rampart.

`Yes,' he said firmly; `if Grace forgives me I am regained to myself and
to her! If she censures me and casts me off, I am reckless of consequences!
For her I live; without her—without her approbation, life were worthless!
character of no value to me!'

Strong as the vice of gaming had taken hold of young Winter; he was
not a profligate. False independence, and love of play were his chief errors.
But as these are ramified by so many vices, he was in danger of becoming
a slave to all. The tender remembrances of Grace, only prevented him from
falling as low as Ellis, whom he despised for his open licentiousness. But
as yet, Frank, though erring greatly, had not yet fallen. He was upon his
feet and yet might retrieve himself. The fearful events of the past night
had appalled—confounded him, and given him a terrible lesson. Play had
become loathsome to him. He felt he could never again cross the threshold
of a gambling hall. He shuddered as he recalled the exciting and horrible
scenes that had transpired in the Salon d' Hercule.

`There are the stars and stripes, flying on the signal tower of our hotel,
exclaimed Ellis. `There is a yankee in the offing!'

Frank started; and glancing at the American colours, cast his eyes seaward.
A ship was visible about eight miles distant, standing towards port.

`It must be the vessel signalized; with a glass we could make out her
flag,' said Ellis eagerly.

`Let us return to the hotel and look at her through the spy-glass,' answered
Winter with animation. `It is no doubt the ship expected by the
merchants.'

They crossed the rampart, descended a broad flight of rough steps of
stone, and crossing the quay soon reached the hotel. Ascending to the
tower, they saw that the ship showed American colours, and a private signal.
One of the merchants present, recognized the signal, and said the ship
was the `Hercule,' from Boston.

At this name, Winter started, and the scenes in the hall d' Hercule flashed
painfully upon his mind. The wind being fair and strong, the ship rapidly
approached, and in an hour after Frank reached the hotel; she was at
anchor in the port. Accompanied by Ellis, he took a boat and boarded her.
On asking for letters for himself; three were handed to him. One of them
was in Grace's handwriting; the other two from his mother and Pratt Parker
the agent.

He did not wait to open them there; but going on shore he excused himself
to Ellis, and sought his room. Closing the door, he seated himself and
first opened his mother's letter. He did not so much dread her reproof, and
he felt that her letter would probably give him a key to the tenor of that
which Grace had written, and which he feared to open.

`This letter from his mother was full of kindness and anxiety for his health,
with earnest wishes for his speedy return, to take charge of the home-stead.
It made no allusion to his duel or resignation; but was throughout, characterised
by the fond spirit of a weak and indulgent mother. It contained a
postscript, saying, that she had written to Mr. Parker, to remit the two
thousand dollars he wrote for; but said not a word about his drafts, or having
overdrawn the amount in her agent's hands. She thought nothing of moment,so
that her son was left to her alive and well. Money held no place
in the mother's heart by the side of her maternal love.

`Good, kind, noble woman! I am not worthy of your affection. I have
abused your kindness. But I will do better. Now for Grace's letter. He
tore the seal and began to read with a flushed brow and deep emotion. For
this letter, the reader is referred to a preceeding chapter.

He read it through without raising his eyes. He then dropped it from
his hand, and leaning his head upon his arm, remained silent, pale and
thoughtful. He was deeply moved;—many passages in the letter had wound-his
self-love; others had displeased him;—many had pained him. He was
torn by mixed and conflicting feelings.

He took up the letter and read it again. He cast it from him with an expression
of contempt; he rose up and paced his chamber. His brow was
angry and his countenance excited.

`Yes, she has learnt all. She has suspected, and now knows me as I am!
She reproves—she censures—she advises! She talks to me about my drafts!
What is it to her? She is bold! Confounded be the grey head of that Pratt
Parker, for communicating with my mother! So she and Grace know all!
This is vexing. She forgives, and yet condemns me! I do not like the tone
of her letter. She assumes too much authority! I cannot see how she can
blame me for my resignation! I see we do not think alike. I do not like the
tone of her letter! It is kind and cutting. It pretends to be friendly, and
yet lashes me! I will not submit to dictation. If she loved me she would
see good in all I did. My acts would be law to her. I am vexed; I am
displeased! I will write and tell her so! Yet, I have no reason to be. The
truth is, I feel that I am all in the wrong, and justly condemned by her. I
have too much pride to confess it even to myself, much less to hear the
truth from others. Grace is right and I am wrong. But I will not write and
tell her I am wrong; I will not write to her at all; I will wait until I see her.
I shall hasten my tour homeward. Now I have money in the agent's letter,
I shall leave at once by the next dilligence. Let me see what sort of funds
Mr. Parker has enclosed.'

He broke the seal of the agent's letter. He carefully unfolded it, and, to

his surprise and alarm, he beheld neither on the upper nor under side of
the fold, any enclosure of draft or bills. The letter was empty and contained
but a few lines.