Two Englishmen in evening dress sat side by side, never speaking, scarcely
moving, their eyes riveted on the falling cards flipped from the
croupier's hands. A coarse-featured, oily-skinned woman--a Russian, I
thought--looked on calmly, resting her head on her palm. A man in a gray
suit, with waxy face and watery, yellow eyes, made paper pills, rolling
them slowly between thumb and forefinger--his features as immobile as a
death-mask. A blue-eyed, blond German officer, with a decoration on the
lapel of his coat, nonchalantly twirled his mustache, his shoulders
straining in tension. A Parisienne, with bleached hair and penciled
eyebrows, leaned over her companion's arm. There was also a flashily
dressed negro, evidently a Haytian, who sat motionless at the far end, as
stolid as a boiler, only the steam-gauge of his eyes denoting the pressure
beneath.
No one spoke, no one laughed.
Two of the group interested me at once,--the croupier and a woman who sat
within three feet of me.
The croupier, who was in evening dress, might have been of any age from
thirty to fifty. His eyes were deep-set and glassy, like those of a
consumptive. His hair was jet-black, his face clean-shaven; the skin, not
ivory, but a dirty white, and flabby, like the belly of a toad. His thin
and bloodless lips were flattened over a row of pure white teeth with
glistening specks of gold that opened when he smiled; closing again slowly
like an automaton's. His shrunken, colorless hands lay on the black cloth
like huge white spiders; their long, thin legs of fingers turned up at the
tips--stealthy, creeping fingers. Sometimes, too, in their nervous
workings, they drooped together like a bunch of skeleton keys. On one of
these lock picks he wore a ring studded alternately with diamonds and
rubies.
The cards seemed to know these fingers, fluttering about them, or
lighting noiselessly at their bidding on the cloth.
When the bank won, the croupier permitted a slight shade of disappointment
to flash over his face, fading into an expression of apology for taking
the stakes. When the bank lost, the lips parted slowly, showing the teeth,
in a half smile. Such delicate outward consideration for the feelings of
his victims seemed a part of his education, an index to his natural
refinement.
The woman was of another type. Although she sat with her back to me, I
could catch her profile when she pushed her long veil from her face. She
was dressed entirely in black. She had been, and was still, a woman of
marked beauty, with an air of high breeding which was unmistakable. Her
features were clean-cut and refined, her mouth and nose delicately shaped.
Her forehead was shaded by waves of brown hair which half covered her
ears. The eyes were large and softened by long lashes, the lids red as if
with recent weeping. Her only ornament was a plain gold ring, worn on her
left hand. Outwardly, she was the only person in the room who betrayed by
her manner any vital interest in the game.
There are some faces that once seen haunt you forever afterward--faces
with masks so thinly worn that you look through into the heart below. Hers
was one of these. Every light and shadow of hope and disappointment that
crossed it showed only the clearer the intensity of her mental strain, and
the bitterness of her anxiety.
Once when she lost she bit her lips so deeply that a speck of blood tinged
her handkerchief. The next instant she was clutching her winnings with
almost the ferocity of a hungry animal. Then she leaned back a moment
later exhausted in her chair, her face thrown up, her eyes closing
wearily.
In her hand she held a small chamois bag filled with gold; when her chips
were exhausted she would rise silently, float like a shadow to the desk,
lay a handful of gold from the bag upon the counter, sweep the ivories
into her hand, and noiselessly regain her seat. She seemed to know no one,
and no one to know her, unless it might have been the croupier, who, I
thought, watched her closely when he pushed over her winnings, parting his
lips a little wider, his smile a trifle more cringing and devilish.
At twelve o'clock she was still playing, her face like chalk, her eyes
bloodshot, her teeth clenched fast, her hair disheveled across her face.
The game went on.
When the clock reached the half-hour the man in gray pushed back his
chair, gathered up his winnings, and moved to the door, an attendant
handing him his hat. With the exception of the Parisienne, who had gone
some time before, taking her companion with her, the devotees were the
same,--the two Englishmen still exchanging clean, white Bank of England
notes, the German and Haytian losing, but calm as mummies, the fat, oily
woman, melting like a red candle, the perspiration streaming down her
face.
Suddenly I heard a convulsive gasp. The woman in black was on her feet
leaning over the table. Her eyes blazed in a frenzy of delight. She was
sweeping into her open hands the piles of gold before her. By some
marvelous stroke of luck, and with almost her last louis, she had won
every franc on the cloth!
Then she drew herself up defiantly, covered her face with her veil, hugged
the money to her breast, and staggered from the room.