"What followed?" I asked, finding that he remained silent.
"You know it only too well," he answered. "It was that very night that Lucien, having lost at baccarat a sum that was enormous for him, lost his head as well, and cheated. And he did it by the stupidest of all tricks, the one they call, in gambler's slang, poussette, which consists in pushing forward a banknote lying just across the line for the stakes when the stakes win, and drawing it back if they lose. Lucien was caught in the set. What more can I tell you? I know all you'll say,—that it was a mere coincidence, and probably not the first time my cousin had cheated; and that a passion for gambling like his is sure to ruin a man in the long run. But why have I never been able to overcome the remorse caused me by this one, solitary, dishonest action of my childhood, which made me an honest man for the rest of my life? Why should this Christmas Eve, so gay and happy for others, be to me the most melancholy, the most depressing of anniversaries?"
"Then," I said to him after another silence, "you don't care much, do you, for our midnight supper?"
"Do you?" he said.
"After such a history, no indeed," I replied. "Give me some tea and let us talk about Auvergne and our mountain excursions, and get rid of these sad thoughts."
