Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 254: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pickwick Abroad. 205 cious—his frame nervous—and his hands trembled violently. He wore a faded blue velvet cap upon his head—his limbs were wrapped in a soiled party-colcured dressing-gown—and his feet were thrust into im- mense slippers that almost effectually concealed the dirty stockings he was not ashamed to wear. His shirt was tumbled; the bosom of it was stained with wine; and two or three buttons were wanting. A bottle of claret, half emptied, and a glass, stood on the table before him, amidst a heap of cards, dice, backgammon-boxes, and a quantity of arty y papers covered with figures that indicated deep calculations of e an d chances of some game. Two or three dice were cut in - havin halves, and evinced proofs o g been ‘loaded ;’’ others were gathered in aseparate heap together, and ticketed with some flash word. Such a scene of dissipation, debauchery, filth, and squalid grandeur never before existed. The furniture was costly in the ex- treme; but the scarlet cushions of the chairs were stained with wine. or grease. The curtains were rich and elegantly hung; but here and there they exhibited the marks of having been injured by candles, and wantonly perforated by foils. The magnificent looking-glass that ornamented the mantel-piece, was cracked across the middle; the clock had lost one of its hands; and the flowers that had formerly embellished the vases, were faded and dead. Such was the appearance of the chamber into which I was shown. : “Oh ! Dumont, my worthy friend,”’ cried the hell-keeper—for such ou may readily have supposed the individual, already described, to ‘S what news this afternoon ?”’ ‘‘T am come to learn some, instead of communicating any,’’ was my reply. ‘‘ How fared you last evening ?” ‘¢ Admirably well!’ returned the chief of that pandemonium : “the bullying Captain de Bellois dropped fifty thousand francs—his cousin, the Count de Lille, lost nearly as much—and young D’Arly, who had already been playing at Frascats's, was entirely cleaned out.” ‘‘ So the evening was favourable,” I remarked with an air of partial indifference. ‘‘ And pray might I ask what was the amount of D’Arly’s losses ?” “A cool twenty thousand francs—nothing more!” was the answer, accompanied by a triumphant smile. ‘‘ The silly fool! He tore his hair—beat his breast—and actually threatened, in a moment of rabid despair, to rob the bank!” “Ah !’’ ejaculated I—‘‘ he menaced you with that—did he ?” “Qh! it was but an idle threat. He soon recovered his wonted coolness, and retired to sup at Véfour’s with de Bellois and de Lille, with whom he suddenly a ed to be on very intimate terms.”’ “‘ D’Arly is a great gamb er—is-he not?’ I enquired. *‘T should fancy he must be upon your list,” was the observation in answer to my demand ; ‘‘ if not—write him down.”’ Idrew my tablets from my pocket, and wrote the following words to the dictation of the heli-keeper. ‘*‘ Henri D’Arly—lives in the Rue Neuve des Mathurinse—is about twenty-five years of age—has been married four years—is supposed to have lost at Frascati’s, the day after he attained his majority, a hundred thousand france—boasted on that occasion that he had six times as much left inthe French funds—never won five thousand COL q) DGoe (c@