Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray (best thriller novels to read TXT) 📕

“Non, Madame,” said the boy; but she must have known, from his accent, of what country he was, for she answered him with a slight foreign tone. “You have nevare played⁠—will you do me a littl’ favor?”

“What is it?” said Georgy, blushing again. Mr. Kirsch was at work for his part at the rouge et noir and did not see his young master.

“Play this for me, if you please; put it on any number, any number.” And she took from her bosom a purse, and out of it a gold piece, the only coin there, and she put it into George’s hand. The boy laughed and did as he was bid.

The number came up sure enough. There is a power that arranges that, they say, for beginners.

“Thank you,” said she, pulling the money towards her, “thank you. What is your name?”

“My name’s Osborne,” said Georgy, and was fingering in his own pockets for dollars, and just about to make a trial, when the Major, in his uniform, and Jos, en Marquis, from the Court ball, made their appearance. Other people, finding the entertainment stupid and preferring the fun at the Stadthaus, had quitted the Palace ball earlier; but it is probable the Major and Jos had gone home and found the boy’s absence, for the former instantly went up to him and, taking him by the shoulder, pulled him briskly back from the place of temptation. Then, looking round the room, he saw Kirsch employed as we have said, and going up to him, asked how he dared to bring Mr. George to such a place.

“Laissez-moi tranquille,” said Mr. Kirsch, very much excited by play and wine. “Il faut s’amuser, parbleu. Je ne suis pas au service de Monsieur.”

Seeing his condition the Major did not choose to argue with the man, but contented himself with drawing away George and asking Jos if he would come away. He was standing close by the lady in the mask, who was playing with pretty good luck now, and looking on much interested at the game.

“Hadn’t you better come, Jos,” the Major said, “with George and me?”

“I’ll stop and go home with that rascal, Kirsch,” Jos said; and for the same reason of modesty, which he thought ought to be preserved before the boy, Dobbin did not care to remonstrate with Jos, but left him and walked home with Georgy.

“Did you play?” asked the Major when they were out and on their way home.

The boy said “No.”

“Give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you never will.”

“Why?” said the boy; “it seems very good fun.” And, in a very eloquent and impressive manner, the Major showed him why he shouldn’t, and would have enforced his precepts by the example of Georgy’s own father, had he liked to say anything that should reflect on the other’s memory. When he had housed him, he went to bed and saw his light, in the little room outside of Amelia’s, presently disappear. Amelia’s followed half an hour afterwards. I don’t know what made the Major note it so accurately.

Jos, however, remained behind over the play-table; he was no gambler, but not averse to the little excitement of the sport now and then, and he had some Napoleons chinking in the embroidered pockets of his court waistcoat. He put down one over the fair shoulder of the little gambler before him, and they won. She made a little movement to make room for him by her side, and just took the skirt of her gown from a vacant chair there.

“Come and give me good luck,” she said, still in a foreign accent, quite different from that frank and perfectly English “Thank you,” with which she had saluted Georgy’s coup in her favour. The portly gentleman, looking round to see that nobody of rank observed him, sat down; he muttered⁠—“Ah, really, well now, God bless my soul. I’m very fortunate; I’m sure to give you good fortune,” and other words of compliment and confusion.

“Do you play much?” the foreign mask said.

“I put a Nap or two down,” said Jos with a superb air, flinging down a gold piece.

“Yes; ay nap after dinner,” said the mask archly. But Jos looking frightened, she continued, in her pretty French accent, “You do not play to win. No more do I. I play to forget, but I cannot. I cannot forget old times, monsieur. Your little nephew is the image of his father; and you⁠—you are not changed⁠—but yes, you are. Everybody changes, everybody forgets; nobody has any heart.”

“Good God, who is it?” asked Jos in a flutter.

“Can’t you guess, Joseph Sedley?” said the little woman in a sad voice, and undoing her mask, she looked at him. “You have forgotten me.”

“Good heavens! Mrs. Crawley!” gasped out Jos.

“Rebecca,” said the other, putting her hand on his; but she followed the game still, all the time she was looking at him.

“I am stopping at the Elephant,” she continued. “Ask for Madame de Raudon. I saw my dear Amelia today; how pretty she looked, and how happy! So do you! Everybody but me, who am wretched, Joseph Sedley.” And she put her money over from the red to the black, as if by a chance movement of her hand, and while she was wiping her eyes with a pocket-handkerchief fringed with torn lace.

The red came up again, and she lost the whole of that stake. “Come away,” she said. “Come with me a little⁠—we are old friends, are we not, dear Mr. Sedley?”

And Mr. Kirsch having lost all his money by this time, followed his master out into the moonlight, where the illuminations were winking out and the transparency over our mission was scarcely visible.

We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley’s biography with that lightness and delicacy which the world demands⁠—the moral world, that has, perhaps, no particular objection to vice,