I owe a beastly lot
of money at the inn, and that impudent little beggar of a landlord won't
let me out of his sight. The luck 's dead against me at those filthy
tables; I have n't won a farthing in three weeks. I wrote to my brother
the other day, and this morning I got an answer from him--a cursed,
canting letter of good advice, remarking that he had already paid my
debts seven times. It does n't happen to be seven; it 's only six, or
six and a half! Does he expect me to spend the rest of my life at the
Hotel de Hollande? Perhaps he would like me to engage as a waiter there
and pay it off by serving at the table d'hote. It would be convenient
for him the next time he comes abroad with his seven daughters and two
governesses. I hate the smell of their beastly table d'hote! You 're
sorry I 'm hard up? I 'm sure I 'm much obliged to you. Can you be of
any service? My dear fellow, if you are bent on throwing your money
about the place I 'm not the man to stop you." Bernard's winnings of the
previous night were burning a hole, as the phrase is, in his pocket. Ten
thousand francs had never before seemed to him so heavy a load to carry,
and to lighten the weight of his good luck by lending fifty pounds to
a less fortunate fellow-player was an operation that not only gratified
his good-nature but strongly commended itself to his conscience.
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