Midnight was approaching.

The baroness’s rooms were brilliantly lit up, but, thanks to the thick curtains which covered the windows, the lights could not be seen from the street, though several carriages were drawn up along the sidewalk.

Opening into the elegant drawing-room was a not less elegant card room, appreciatively nicknamed the Inferno by the band.  In it stood a large table with a green cloth, on which lay a heap of bank notes and two little piles of gold, before which sat Sergei Antonovitch Kovroff, presiding over the bank with the composure of a true gentleman.

What Homeric, Jovine calm rested on every feature of his face!  What charming, fearless self-assurance, what noble self-confidence in his smile, in his glance!  What grace, what distinction in his pose, and especially in the hand which dealt the cards!  Sergei Kovroff’s hands were decidedly worthy of attention.  They were almost always clad in new gloves, which he only took off on special occasions, at dinner, or when he had some writing to do, or when he sat down to a game of cards.  As a result, his hands were almost feminine in their delicacy, the sensibility of the finger tips had reached an extraordinary degree of development, equal to that of one born blind.  And those fingers were skillful, adroit, alert, their every movement carried out with that smooth, indefinable grace which is almost always possessed by the really high-class card sharper.  His fingers were adorned with numerous rings, in which sparkled diamonds and other precious stones.  And it was not for nothing that Sergei Kovroff took pride in them!  This glitter of diamonds, scattering rainbow rays, dazzled the eyes of his fellow players.  When Sergei Kovroff sat down to preside over the bank, the sparkling of the diamonds admirably masked those motions of his fingers which needed to be masked; they almost insensibly drew away the eyes of the players from his fingers, and this was most of all what Sergei Kovroff desired.

Round the table about thirty guests were gathered.  Some of them sat, but most of them played standing, with anxious faces, feverishly sparkling eyes, and breathing heavily and unevenly.  Some were pale, some flushed, and all watched with passionate eagerness the fall of the cards.  There were also some who had perfect command of themselves, distinguished by extraordinary coolness, and jesting lightly whether they lost or won.  But such happily constituted natures are always a minority when high play is going on.

Silence reigned in the Inferno.  There was almost no conversation; only once in a while was heard a remark, in a whisper or an undertone, addressed by a player to his neighbor; the only sound was that short, dry rustle of the cards and the crackling of new bank notes, or the tinkle of gold coins making their way round the table from the bank to the players, and from the players back to the bank.

The two Princes Shadursky, father and son, both lost heavily.  They sat opposite Sergei Kovroff, and between them sat Baroness von Doering, who played in alliance with them.  The clever Natasha egged them on, kindling their excitement with all the skill and calculation possible to one whose blood was as cold as the blood of a fish, and both the Shadurskys had lost their heads, no longer knowing how much they were losing.