Maxime, wandering alone for a few minutes, finds a throng around a
table of rouge et noir. It is crowded with eager gamesters. Nodding
to one and another, he meets many acquaintances--men have no real
friends as yet in this egoistic land. The Louisianian moves toward
the goal whither all are tending. Jealous glances are cast by
women whose deserted tables show their charms are too well known.
All swarm toward a new centre of attraction. Cheeks long unused
to the blush of shame are reddened with passion, to see the fickle
crowd surge around the game presided over by a new-comer to the
sandy shores of San Francisco. She is an unknown goddess.
"What's all this?" asks Maxime, of a man he knows. He is idling
now, with an amused smile. He catches a glimpse of the tall form
of Philip Hardin in the front row of players, near the yellow
bulwarks of gold.
"Why, Valois, you are behind the times!" is the reply. "Don't you
know the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?"
"I confess I do not," says the Creole. He has been absent for some
time from this resort of men with more gold than brains. "Who is
she? What is she?" continues Maxime.
His friend laughs as he gaily replies, "As to what she is, walk
up to the table.
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