Her Last Stake, Chapters I-V [pp. 815-839]

HER LAST STAKE.
Sister Gabrielle went back to the little north room au troisieme with a sad heart; and as she approached the bed to administer some nourishment at the appointed hour a thrill of
pity and compassion came to her as she passed her hand under
the hot, restless head, and held a spoon to the parched lips.
"Poor thing! poor thing!" she whispered to herself. "Home
less and friendless-I wonder why?"
As if the words had touched some chord in the sufferer's
mind, she began to murmur some words, more connectedly than
any the nun had heard hitherto. "Why? Why? Who knows
why? Was it my system? It is a good one, yes! Yet listen:
Rouge perd-perd encore-toulours le rouge qui perd-and those
others, they win, and they do not need it as I do.... Which
do you say is the lucky man?... I will ask-him-to give
me a number-a number-" and her voice trailed away again
into silence.
"I suppose she has been to that dreadful Casino," innocently
thought the nun. "Will she die, I wonder? Perhaps I ought
to say something to her about it, if a gleam of consciousness
comes. It is useless to send for a priest, as, no doubt, she is
a Protestant. Is she, though? Well, if she were a Catholic
there would surely be something to show it-some medal, scapular-something."
So, seeing that her patient had lapsed into quietude, she set
to work to empty the big trunk which, with innate delicacy, she
had hitherto refrained from touching, though M. le Proprietaire's
rough hands had already tossed and tumbled about its contents.
Now, knowing that for its owner's sake it was incumbent on
her to seek information, she carefully examined every corner.
Dress pockets, the little work-case, an empty card-case, two or
three French novels of the usual yellow-covered kind, some torn
sheets of paper dotted over with figures, the meaning of which
Sister Gabrielle did not fathom, and vaguely supposed them to
be "accounts," old concert programmes-was there nothing of
the past among all these tumbled heaps of fine linen and lace,
gloves and wraps, mostly old and worn, but still dainty in texture; no scrap of identity to be found anywhere?
As she pondered and puzzled over this strange absence of
any clue to the sick woman's identity, which she began to think
must be intentional, the feeble voice began again its monotonous, broken words.
"It is only life that can fear dying. Possible loss means possible gain... gain? I never gain-it is all loss, loss, loss!"
822
[Mar.,