A large oval table, covered with green cloth, and lighted by lamps hung from the ceiling, took up most of the space in the room we have attempted to describe. In the centre sat the player who held the bank for the time being. On either side of him, to the right or left, he dealt the cards to his fellow players, who were thus divided into two groups, or "sides," to use the recognized description. In front of him were several packs of cards which, when they had been once used, he threw into a sort of leathern bowl placed on the table.
As M. de Morin entered this baccarat room some half-a-score players were commencing another set, and by them his arrival was noisily welcomed.
"Holloa! de Morin, come along! Where do you spring from at this hour? A supper party, of course. Fearful depravity! Your family must be communicated with, and asked to interfere. A splendid game, my dear fellow. Not many of us, it is true, but all of the right sort. Come along and take a hand. Sit by me and bring me luck."
At such an hour a new-comer was a god-send, and the heartiness of the welcome given to M. de Morin had, in reality, nothing personal about it. The winners, anxious to get away with their winnings, but hesitating to leave lest their departure should be too noticeable, were delighted at the arrival of a recruit ready to take their place, and the losers, on the other hand, interested in prolonging the game so that they might have a chance of recouping themselves, were jubilant over the increase to their number, and with that superstition inherent in all gamblers, trusted that the new arrival would turn the tide of fortune in their favour.
M. de Morin, having by a glance satisfied himself that M. Delange, true to his habits, was seated at the baccarat table, secured a supply of counters to the amount of five thousand francs, and, as the bank was up and nobody seemed anxious for it, took it himself.
CHAPTER IX.
In a very few moments M. de Morin had doubled his bank, which now amounted to ten thousand francs.
That this would happen might have easily been foreseen, for baccarat cannot be classed amongst games of chance, properly so called, and, consequently it is, if not actually recognized, at all events tolerated in many clubs. It requires to be played with plenty of coolness, and even then only on the basis of certain calculations. It is evident that a player who has to contend against successive runs of eights and nines must inevitably go to the wall, however well he may play, but, as a matter of fact, such knock-down blows are very exceptional. The fall of the cards, as a rule, ranges between one and seven, and this average allows of certain rules for play being formulated, which it is important to study. For instance, whether it is good play to ask for a card when you hold a five and you do not yet know your adversary's play; or whether the banker, after having dealt an ace or a two to the right "side," and a court card to the left, should stand at five. All a matter of inspiration, according to some people, but entirely a matter of calculation in the opinion of regular baccarat players.
But, when the players have been at it for some time, without rest or cessation, they very often forget all about their calculations, and simply trust to chance. Their vaunted science disappears before what they are pleased to call their inspirations, and, for that very reason, the greater part of their winnings disappears, too. Consequently those who, cool and fresh, drop in upon them unexpectedly, are pretty nearly sure to win. These new comers are like troops in reserve. After having been held inactive during the progress of an extended engagement, they receive a sudden order to advance to the attack, and must necessarily get the better of any division of the enemy which has been ever since the morning sustaining repeated onslaughts, is beginning to run short of ammunition, and is ready to drop with fatigue.
M. de Morin, with his skin cool and his head clear, completely master of his game and not in the least pre-occupied, was in a position to watch his adversaries and profit by their mistakes. From their countenances, from the nervous twitching of their wearied hands, and from the exclamations which escaped them unawares, he could tell what they thought of their cards, and could regulate his own play accordingly. If, when worn out with the fatigue and feverish excitement of the game, they stood on a seven, thinking it was an eight, or if they made a mistake in the points of the game, the new comer, as he had every right to do, appealed to the rules and insisted upon their being adhered to.