One night, a month after her flight, the poor woman, quite against her will, was present at a ball given by one of the reigning belles of wicked Paris.
Entering the room, she shrank back, for there sat Armand. He had not visited many of these gay places since she had left him, and his entrance here had created some surprise amongst the guests. Many looked to see how the old lovers would meet. As she entered he looked up from a card table. She smiled timidly; he bowed to her coldly. She told her companion that she would rather not remain; but he also, marking her old lover, said he would not be laughed at, and insisted upon her keeping in the room. She obeyed, and sat timidly down.
Armand played high, and some one remarking it, he said he was trying the force of the old proverb, “Unlucky in love, lucky at cards.” “Oh, I mean to make a fortune to-night, then spend it in the country. And not alone; with some one who has lived in the country as well as I have—perhaps when I am rich.”
Marguerite’s companion hearing the player’s menace, went up to the table, and commenced playing. He lost, and every time he lost, the other gained.
Soon afterwards, supper was called, and all the company made for the table where it was laid, all except Marguerite, who remained seated, depressed both in body and mind.
She had scarcely been alone a minute, before Armand came running to her. He loved her as fervently as ever. As she perceived his ardor, she felt almost tempted to tell him the whole truth of her flight, but the promise to his father stayed her. At last, he prayed her to fly with him again, saying he would forget the past. But no, she refused. Again and again he implored, yet she was obdurate.
Then he grew enraged—mad; he rushed to the supper room, screamed to them to see him do an act of justice; and, as they came streaming out and round about, he took from his pocket all his winnings, and cried, “You see that woman! well, do you know what she has done for me? She sold her horses and her carriages, and her diamonds, that she might live with me—so much did she love me. Was not that noble? And I—what did I do? I, a mean wretch, accepted the sacrifice, and gave no payment. But ’tis not too late, and I would repair my shame. See you all, I pay this Marguerite, and I owe her naught.”
As he spoke, he flung a heap of bank notes and gold at the feet of this miserable woman, who fell heavily back upon a sofa, mercifully deprived of sense. Down they rained upon her, the notes and gold; down they fell crushing her as surely as though they had been jagged rocks.