Enchantée(101)

“There are cool drinks here. You have only to snap your fingers,” he said, slowly, as he lifted her hand. She wondered if he meant to kiss it, but instead he drew it close and held it against the patterned silk of his waistcoat, over his heart. Beneath her palm, it was racing.

“Feel how fast it runs, Baroness?”

She nodded, apprehensive.

“As fast as when I took a gamble and kissed you at the opera?”

This was the kind of opening she’d hoped for as she’d sat in the carriage, spinning toward Versailles. But now she could not imagine saying anything. Lazare was so strange, himself and not-himself. “I don’t know,” she managed to say.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “For the stakes are just as high now.”

“Lazare,” she said, keeping her voice down. “What are you doing? There’s nothing that’s worth this.”

He dropped her hand and she curled her fingers into her palm. “Nothing?” he asked. “What about my life? My freedom? The balloon? I have no choice but to try my luck here.”

“This is a terrible game, and a terrible idea.” She added, quietly, “I could help with whatever costs you have—”

“Absolutely not.” He rubbed his face roughly. “Chandon, credit me another thousand, will you?”

A buzz ran around the table as Chandon noted Lazare’s name on an accounting sheet and counted out stacks of chips, stiffly pushing them to Lazare with a rake.

“Please listen,” she tried again.

He only stared at his cards.

Taking out a handful of chips from her purse, Camille tossed them angrily on the table in front of her.

“Everyone ready?”

The betting was wild. Willsingham was a loud and eager gambler, making quips in his awful French, and his antics got the other players to loosen up and place their chips on the table. Lazare played grimly, as if spurred by some inner demon. Why would he not listen? Or at least let her help?

Opposite them, Chandon smiled wanly when the players laid down big bets. He comforted them when their cards were revealed to be losers, and called for champagne when their cards were winners. But for all his patter, something was wrong. Though the room was so hot that Camille was constantly fanning herself, Chandon wore his cravat tied high around his neck as if it were winter.

Séguin stalked the room, passing through the pockets of light and dark, bending to speak to the guests at the other tables, waving at a footman to bring someone more wine or the gambler’s standby, a sandwich. Camille felt him watching her.

“Last three cards!” Chandon called out. “Place your bets for the turn. Odds are four to one if you bet wisely.”

Camille checked the abacus. Strange—so many beads had never been moved. Whoever was keeping track of which cards had been played was doing a terrible job.

“Madame de la Fontaine?” Chandon raised an eyebrow. “Care to get rich?”

“Not this time. You’ll sit out, too, won’t you, marquis?” she said to Lazare.

“I’m in,” Lazare said. He dropped a third of his chips on the three of spades, a third on the jack, and a third on number four. “Because that is the number of the aeronauts,” he added with a bleak laugh.

Any other time, she would have rejoiced to be included in this number. But now? Not if the balloon was driving him toward ruin. He was drunk after days of playing, hollowed-out. And reckless: he’d placed all his chips on the board. He’d asked for a thousand earlier, but how much debt had he racked up before she’d arrived? She sensed it was a lot. Too much.

“I’m sure I saw a jack come up just now. Jacks are probably dead,” she warned. “Why not bet on nine?”

“What does it matter, as long as I win?” Lazare rubbed his temple. “Les jeux sont faits, non?”

“The bets may have been placed, but that doesn’t mean it’s over.” She couldn’t let him destroy himself, even for the chance of saving the balloon, not when she might stop him. “Chandon hasn’t called it yet,” she said, urgently. “There’s still time—why not pull out now? Keep your winnings.”

“I aim to win this one.”

Desperate, she tried once more. “Faro’s a poisonous game, you know that. You start with a little, get used to the taste, and ask for more, forgetting how much you’ve taken.”

Lazare stared straight ahead to where Chandon fidgeted with the dealing box that held the cards. Had he even heard her? He kept drumming on the table with his thumb. She wanted to shake him. Why wouldn’t he stop? She tried to make Chandon see what was happening, but he fixed his eyes on the three cards left in the dealer’s box.

When Chandon spoke, his voice cracked. “If everyone’s placed their bets?”

All the noise and chatter stopped as Chandon’s nimble fingers hovered over the first of the last three cards. He slid it, facedown, from the box and then, with a flourish, revealed it.

“Three!” someone shouted.

Chandon’s face was grave as he raked a third of Lazare’s chips toward himself. All around them, people muttered disapprovingly.

Lazare gave a short laugh. “I’ll win the next two.”

Chandon’s hands rested on the spotted back of the next card. “Ready?”

He flipped it: the queen of spades.