The interior corresponds with the exterior. The rooms are spacious, but
decorated with hackneyed magnificence. The acolytes of Chance, the
bored, indifferent, monotonous croupiers, look like shop-assistants in
their Sunday clothes. They are not the high-priests, but the
office-clerks of Hazard. The rites and implements of the cult are vulgar
and commonplace: a few tables, some chairs; here, a sort of bowl or
cylinder that turns in the centre of each table, with a tiny ivory ball
that rolls in the opposite direction; there, a few packs of cards; and
that is all. It needs no more to evoke the immeasurable power that holds
the stars in suspense.