"Give me back, Feefine," he faltered, "only that fifty francs I once
tied in a gold band about your spaniel's neck. I am poor, my dear--that
will not move you, I know, but I am going to Germany to play at the
banks; if I win, I swear to pay you back ten francs for one!"
There was never a _lorette_ who did not love to gamble. She stopped a
passing gentleman and borrowed the money; the other saw it transferred
to Pisgah, with an expression of contempt, and, turning to a friend,
called him aloud a withering name.
Poor Pisgah! he would have drawn his bowie-knife once, and defied even
the emperor to stand between the man and himself after such an
appellation. He would have esteemed it a favor now to be what he was
named, and only lifted his creased beaver gratefully, and hobbled
nervously away, and stopping near by at a cafe drank a great glass of
absinthe, with almost a prayerful heart.
At Mr. Simp's hotel in the Rue Monsieur Le Prince much business was
transacted after dark. Monsieurs Freckle and Plade were engaged in
smuggling away certain relics of furniture and wearing apparel.
Mr. Simp already owed his landlord fifteen months' rent, for which the
only security was his diminishing effects.
If the mole-eyed concierge should suspect foul play with these, Simp
would be turned out of doors immediately and the property confiscated.
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