"
"His winnings are there upon the table."
"Don't believe it," cried the baron. "All these scoundrels have
secret pockets in which they stow away their plunder. Search him
by all means."
"That's it--search him!"
Crushed by this unexpected, undeserved and incomprehensible
misfortune, Pascal had almost yielded to his fate. But the
shameful cry: "Search him!" kindled terrible wrath in his brain.
He shook off his assailants as a lion shakes off the hounds that
have attacked him, and, reaching the fireplace with a single
bound, he snatched up a heavy bronze candelabrum and brandished it
in the air, crying: "The first who approaches is a dead man!"
He was ready to strike, there was no doubt about it; and such a
weapon in the hands of a determined man, becomes positively
terrible. The danger seemed so great and so certain that his
enemies paused--each encouraging his neighbor with his glance; but
no one was inclined to engage in this struggle, by which the
victor would merely gain a few bank-notes. "Stand back, and allow
me to retire?" said Pascal, imperiously. They still hesitated;
but finally made way. And, formidable in his indignation and
audacity, he reached the door of the room unmolested, and
disappeared.
This superb outburst of outraged honor, this marvellous energy--
succeeding, as it did, the most complete mental prostration--and
these terrible threats, had proved so prompt and awe-inspiring
that no one had thought of cutting off Pascal's retreat.
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