A noise of money, continuous as that of the waves, a noise at once
deep, light and terrible, fills the ears from the moment one enters,
then fills the soul, stirs the heart, troubles the mind, and bewilders
thought. Everywhere this sound, this singing, crying, calling,
tempting, rending sound.
Around the tables, a motley crowd of players, the scum of every
continent and of every society; mixed with princes, or future kings,
women of fashion, _bourgeois,_ money lenders, disreputable women; a
mixture unique in the world, of men of all races, of all castes, of all
kinds, of every origin; a perfect museum of adventurers from Russia,
Brazil, Chili, Italy, Spain, Germany; of old women with reticules,
of disreputable young ones carrying little bags containing keys, a
handkerchief, and the three last five-franc pieces which are kept for
the green cloth, when the vein of luck shall chance to return.
I approached the first table, and saw ... a pale face, with lined
forehead, and hard-set lip; features convulsed, with an expression of
evil ... the young woman of Agay bay, the beautiful sweetheart of the
sunny wood, and the moonlit bay. He, too, is there, seated before her,
his hand resting on a few napoleons.
"Play on the first square," said she.
He inquired anxiously:
"All?"
"Yes, all."
He placed the coins in a little heap.
The croupier turned the wheel. The ball ran, danced, and stopped.
"Nothing further counts," jerks forth the voice, which resumes after a
moment:
"Twenty-eight."
The young woman started, and in a hard, sharp tone said:
"Come away."
He rose, and without looking at her, followed her; and one felt that
some dreadful thing had sprung up between them.
Some one remarked:
"Good-bye to love. They don't look as if they were of one mind to-day."
A hand taps me on the shoulder. I turn round. It is my friend.
* * * * *
I have only now to ask pardon for having thus trespassed on my reader
by talking so much of myself. I had written this journal of day-dreams
entirely for myself, or rather, I had taken advantage of my floating
solitude, to capture the wandering ideas which are wont to traverse our
minds, like birds on the wing.
But I am asked to publish these few pages, which, unconnected,
deficient in composition and in art, follow one after the other without
a reason, and abruptly conclude without a motive; simply because a
squall of wind put an end to my voyage.