Gordon laid his hand appreciatively, gratefully, on Bernard's shoulder.
"And even that did n't make you like her?"
"Confound it, you make me blush!" cried Bernard, blushing a little in fact.
"I have said quite enough; excuse me from drawing the portrait of too insensible a man. It was my point of view; I kept thinking of you."
Gordon, with his hand still on his friend's arm, patted it an instant in response to this declaration; then he turned away.
"I am much obliged to you. That 's my notion of friendship.
You have spoken out like a man."
"Like a man, yes. Remember that. Not in the least like an oracle."
"I prefer an honest man to all the oracles," said Gordon.
"An honest man has his impressions! I have given you mine--they pretend to be nothing more. I hope they have n't offended you."
"Not in the least."
"Nor distressed, nor depressed, nor in any way discomposed you?"
"For what do you take me? I asked you a favor--a service;
I imposed it on you. You have done the thing, and my part is simple gratitude."
"Thank you for nothing," said Bernard, smiling. "You have asked me a great many questions; there is one that in turn I have a right to ask you.
What do you propose to do in consequence of what I have told you?"
"I propose to do nothing."
This declaration closed the colloquy, and the young men separated.
Bernard saw Gordon no more that evening; he took for granted he had gone to Mrs. Vivian's. The burden of Longueville's confidences was a heavy load to carry there, but Bernard ventured to hope that he would deposit it at the door.
He had given Gordon his impressions, and the latter might do with them what he chose--toss them out of the window, or let them grow stale with heedless keeping. So Bernard meditated, as he wandered about alone for the rest of the evening.
It was useless to look for Mrs. Vivian's little circle, on the terrace of the Conversation-house, for the storm in the afternoon had made the place so damp that it was almost forsaken of its frequenters. Bernard spent the evening in the gaming-rooms, in the thick of the crowd that pressed about the tables, and by way of a change--he had hitherto been almost nothing of a gambler--he laid down a couple of pieces at roulette.
He had played but two or three times, without winning a penny; but now he had the agreeable sensation of drawing in a small handful of gold. He continued to play, and he continued to win.
His luck surprised and excited him--so much so that after it had repeated itself half a dozen times he left the place and walked about for half an hour in the outer darkness.
He felt amused and exhilarated, but the feeling amounted almost to agitation. He, nevertheless, returned to the tables, where he again found success awaiting him.
Again and again he put his money on a happy number, and so steady a run of luck began at last to attract attention.
The rumor of it spread through the rooms, and the crowd about the roulette received a large contingent of spectators.
Bernard felt that they were looking more or less eagerly for a turn of the tide; but he was in the humor for disappointing them, and he left the place, while his luck was still running high, with ten thousand francs in his pocket. It was very late when he returned to the inn--so late that he forbore to knock at Gordon's door. But though he betook himself to his own quarters, he was far from finding, or even seeking, immediate rest.
He knocked about, as he would have said, for half the night--not because he was delighted at having won ten thousand francs, but rather because all of a sudden he found himself disgusted at the manner in which he had spent the evening.
It was extremely characteristic of Bernard Longueville that his pleasure should suddenly transform itself into flatness. What he felt was not regret or repentance.
He had it not in the least on his conscience that he had given countenance to the reprehensible practice of gaming.
It was annoyance that he had passed out of his own control--that he had obeyed a force which he was unable to measure at the time. He had been drunk and he was turning sober.
In spite of a great momentary appearance of frankness and a lively relish of any conjunction of agreeable circumstances exerting a pressure to which one could respond, Bernard had really little taste for giving himself up, and he never did so without very soon wishing to take himself back.