“No.”
“Have one. Watch this game closely. I’m going.”
“Might a fellow know what it’s called?”
“Sure. Baccarat. Listen: at eight, in the Café de Lisboa.”
Vidal went out and Manuel was left alone. He watched the money pass to and fro between the bank and the players, the players and the bank. Then he amused himself by watching the gamblers. The participants were so intent upon their game that no one paid any attention to his neighbour.
Those who were seated had in front of them heaps of silver and chips which they placed upon the carpet. The croupier would lay out the French cards and shortly afterward pay out or take in the money thus placed.
Those who were standing around the table, the majority of whom were not taking part in the game, seemed as deeply interested as, if not more so than, the persons seated and playing heavily.
They were specimens of poverty and horrible sordidness; they wore threadbare coats, greasy hats, baggy trousers spattered with mud.
Their eyes were aflame with the passion of the game, and they followed the progress of the plays with their arms clasped behind their backs and their bodies bent forward, holding in their breath.