It was amazing to reflect that, year in and year out, from ten o’clock in the morning until ten o’clock at night (until midnight in the Cercle Privée) these black-coated men sat at their tables, twirling their rakes, watching without error every note or counter that fell on the table, separating notes from chips with a deftness that was amazing, doing this in such an atmosphere of respectability that the most rabid anti-gambler watching the scene must come in time to believe that roulette was a legitimate business exercise.
Through the years this fringe of people about the table would remain, though units would go out, and as units went out new units would replace them, and everlastingly would sit shabby old men and women with their cryptic notebooks, making their tableaux with red and black pencils, religiously recording the result of every coup, staking now and again their five-franc pieces, and watching them raked to the croupier with stony despair or drawing with trembling hands the few poor francs which fortune had sent them.
Timothy was very silent when they passed the portals of the Cercle Privée, into that wonderful interior which, viewed from the entrance room, had the appearance of some rich cathedral.
“What do you think of them?” asked Mary.
He did not answer at once.
“What did you think of the people?” she demanded again. “Did you see that quaint old woman—taking a chance? I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I really didn’t mean to be——”
“I know you didn’t,” said Timothy, and sighed.
The roulette table did not attract him. He strolled off to watch the players at trente et quarante. Here the procedure was more complicated. One of the officials dealt two lines of cards, ending each when the pips added to something over thirty. The top line stood for black, the lower line for red, and that which was nearest to thirty won. After mastering this, the process was simple; you could either back the red or the black, or you could bet that the first card that was dealt was identical with the colour that won, or was the reverse.
The game interested him. It had certain features which in a way were fascinating. He noticed that the croupier never spoke of the black. The black might have had no existence at the trente et quarante table; either “red won” or “red lost.” He staked a louis and won twice. He staked another and lost it. Then he won three coups of a louis and looked around uncertainly, almost guiltily, for Mary.
She was watching the roulette players, and Timothy took a wad of bills from his pocket and counted out six milles. That was another thing he was to discover: there were three classes of players—those who punted in one or five louis pieces, those who bet handsomely in milles (a thousand-franc note is a “mille” and has no other name), and those who went the maximum of twelve thousand francs on each coup.