“‘It has not answered to-night, at all events,’ exclaimed the chevalier. ‘The devil’s charm which _you_ carry is stronger than the Obeah-man’s!’ replied M. de Talleyrand; and they began their game once more. The cards were this time more favourable; but Fénélon lost the hard-fought battle with good grace, and whistled merrily as he cut the cards to his adversary. How shall I tell you what followed? It seems so strange a tale, that you will hesitate to believe it, and yet I give you my honour that it is true. The first game was won by M. de Talleyrand—the first during the whole evening, and it was with a nervous eagerness that he snatched up his trumpery pin, leaving the gold which the chevalier had staked to be doubled in the next hand, for again was Talleyrand the winner. The tide of fortune had turned. He went on winning, without intermission, until near daylight, when the whole of the gold which had been won at the gaming-house was transferred from the pocket of the chevalier to that of his friend!
“M. de Talleyrand had several times requested leave to depart, but Fénélon had obstinately refused to allow him to withdraw, so long as there remained a single louis on the board or a single trinket in his possession. It was five o’clock when the adversaries at length rose, M. de Talleyrand, embarrassed with his success, the chevalier mortified and crest-fallen, when the latter, with a sudden inspiration, thumping his fist upon the table, exclaimed, ‘One more trial, and I have done! I _must_ have that confounded breast-pin! By all the powers, the Obeah-man was right; it is that which brings the luck!’
“‘But what have you to stake against a trinket of so much value?’ returned M. de Talleyrand, endeavouring to laugh away the impression which, in spite of himself, the occurrences of the evening had made upon his mind. ‘Look round the room,’ was the answer, ‘choose any article you like; I feel sure that this time I shall win it; for it was when you were at your wit’s end that fortune changed!’
“M. de Talleyrand looked round the room, but it was only for form’s sake. He had already in his own mind chosen his booty. It was a small silver urn, of antique form and most delicate workmanship. Its weight and value did not seem very great, neither was it chiselled or adorned in any manner, but its form was so graceful and elegant, its proportions so exquisite, that it could not fail to attract the eye of a connoisseur, and he named it with less compunction from a knowledge of the smallness of its intrinsic value. The moment he mentioned it, however, all the desperate gaiety of the chevalier seemed to have received a sudden check. He started, and set down the glass he was about to raise to his lips, and, looking full and steadily into the face of his companion, while, however, his lips quivered slightly, and his voice was much subdued, he answered, ‘You have fixed upon the only thing from which I cannot—I dare not part. I could not risk the loss of that little vase were all the riches in the universe staked against it.’