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Jeux de Hasard - Part 4

The relief he'd felt at his victory was driven from him by the appearance of the new marker as if he'd received a blow to the stomach. Phileas stared down at the chip, reading the name of his valet. And, so slowly that he hadn't realized he was even moving, he seated himself at the table again.

"You can't," said Verne. "No." He turned to Lady Bella, catching hold of her hands. "Stop them. You have to stop them!"

"Is that what you want, Verne?" asked Phileas wearily. He met the writer's eyes briefly, then reached down to touch his finger to the marker on the table that bore his own name. "If I walk away now, Passepartout dies."

"It's wrong." Verne planted his hands on the baize, took a breath, and glared across at the veiled woman. "You have no right to do this to us."

"I have every right," said the dealer. Though her voice was raised barely above a whisper, it was clear and cold, perfectly audible. "This is not your trick, Mr. Verne. Unless you wish to take the chair?"

Phileas picked up his marker from the table and set it down firmly in the center of play. "Deal."

When Verne reached for the marker, the Lady Bella caught his hands and pulled him back from the table. She seemed to have little trouble subduing Verne, whispering into his ear and running her fingers along the side of his face until his struggles stopped and his hands dropped to his sides.

Phileas watched, concerned that he might have to intervene, but Verne's breathing seemed calmer and although his eyes were glazed, he still seemed to be aware of his surroundings. "Thank you," he said, to Lady Bella.

She nodded in answer, but averted her gaze, refusing to look at him.

He knew then what the result of the trick would be.

The cards had been dealt while his attention had been on Verne, but any protest would have been foolish. A three of diamonds lay face up before him, while the dealer was showing a nine of clubs.

He flipped the second card over - the queen of hearts. Reaching out his hand, Phileas tapped once upon the card.

The knave of clubs landed before him.

Twenty-three.

He'd lost.

The dealer tilted over her own hidden card - an eight of clubs - before reaching forward and taking each marker, setting them down on the baize before her. He felt a cold hand close around his heart as she had touched his marker, then looked up to find her smiling.

"You still have a stake before you, Mr. Fogg. Will you wager, or give the chair to a new player?"

He heard Verne's whispered, "No," behind him and yet he couldn't help but stare down at Rebecca's marker. His own life was forfeit - had been for some time - but he couldn't let Passepartout go so easily. Rebecca would have taken a bullet or a blade for Passepartout - she'd approve the wager.

It was hard to lift the marker, his fingers seemed too slick to hold it or it had grown in weight since he'd last touched the stone, but Phileas placed it at the center of play. A low moan of anguish from Verne did little to steady his hands. He steepled his fingers before himself and waited.

There were two markers before the dealer. Only now did it occur to him that it would be her choice as to the one she bet against him. He wet his lips with his tongue, opened his mouth to ask . . . and then stopped himself as he met her eyes. She reached down, picked up a marker and placed it beside Rebecca's.

His own name was on the marker, not Passepartout.

The cards fell to the table with the muted sound of snowflakes drifting to the ground. Phileas stared at the table and found a king of clubs before him - the dealer was showing a queen of spades. The cards had not been cut, nor had the deck been reshuffled; the odds for an ace were on his side. As long as he didn't turn over the last card, there was still a chance of winning.

But there was a game in progress, he had to complete the trick. His heart froze within his chest as the card flipped over to reveal a king of hearts.

The dealer held an ace of clubs.

He'd lost the trick.

He'd lost the game.

He'd lost everything.

Still, there was something in maintaining his dignity at the end. Reaching forward before her hand could touch them, he pushed the two markers toward the dealer in silence and rose from the chair. He could barely raise his eyes to look at Verne, knowing that he would see disappointment, blame, anger.

Lady Bella stood behind the writer, her hand on his right shoulder. Verne's eyes held none of what he might have expected, save anguish . . . and hope, as well. With a nod, he passed Phileas and tried to take the chair. "My turn."

"No." Phileas caught Verne's wrist, half-turned to block him from the chair. "You're the last - we can't lose you. They'd never forgive me. I'd never forgive myself."

Verne's smile was hard, almost bitter. "It's my decision, not yours."

"You've never gambled," he hissed. "You said it yourself - you don't know when to go or when to stay."

"Then I'll need your advice, won't I?"

"My advice?" Phileas laughed aloud and seated himself on the arm of the chair. "As if that's worth anything." He checked his watch, staring at the hands for a moment before announcing, "Too late - it's a quarter to midnight."

"I believe our business is at an end, gentleman," announced the dealer. Rising to her feet, she lifted the red box and set it upon the table. Her gloved fingers unfixed the clasp--

"Time for one more trick, I should think," said a voice behind Phileas.

He turned to find an older man wearing the robes and apron of a scholar from the Sorbonne. The white hair was somewhat wild and untamed, but the eyes were sharp and wary. He nodded gravely toward Phileas, but it was toward Verne that he turned as the young writer called, "Arago!" and nearly knocked the elder man over with the strength of his embrace.

"Easy, Jules, easy."

"You have to help us, Arago," demanded Verne, pointing toward the table. "You have to stop this."

"Calm yourself - you've plenty of time." He patted Verne's shoulder almost absently, then fixed the young man with a steady gaze. "It's up to you now. But remember, you're under no obligation - it's yours to choose or turn away."

Phileas rose to his feet and faced the older man. "You can't allow him to do this. Tell him what's at stake."

"I know what's at stake," countered Verne angrily. "Rebecca's life. Passepartout's life. Your life." When Phileas snorted at the addition of himself to the list and turned away, Verne grabbed his arm and spun him back. "Your life was worth wagering on theirs . . . isn't mine worth as much?"

"More, actually," said Arago, with a smile. Holding out his hand, he produced a stone marker very like the others, the difference being the color - a reddish brown, with veins of black and white running through it. Placing it on the table, he gestured Verne toward the chair. "It's up to you, Jules. You decide."

Before Phileas could move, Verne slipped into the chair. Lady Bella flashed a smile at Phileas as she passed him and seated herself on the left arm, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of Verne's neck.

"Take your place," said Arago, touching Phileas' arm and gesturing toward the right side of the chair, adding softly, "He needs your help now far more than he needs mine."

Phileas caught hold of the older man's collar and pulled him close. "If anything happens to him, it's your responsibility."

Arago merely smiled. "It often is." Without any visible effort, he removed Phileas' fingers from his collar, then gestured Phileas into place with a shooing motion, whispering, "Go! Go!"

Reluctantly, Phileas took his place at Verne's right. He felt the dealer watching him and he barely managed a mask of civility as he met her gaze. Her lips were drawn into a tight, thin line of disapproval as Verne pushed his marker to the center of the table.

This trick was going to be anything but a convivial game of chance among friends.

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End of chapter 4

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