The Court ladies never left Law alone. One morning, when he was surrounded by a body of grandes dames, he was going to retire. They inquired the reason, which was of such a kind as should have silenced them; but on the contrary, they said, "Oh! if it is nothing but that, let them bring here a chaise percée for Mr. Law." When the young king was at play, and the stakes were too high even for his Majesty, he refused to cover them all; young Law (the son of the adventurer) cried out, "If his Majesty will not cover, I will." The King's governor frowned on the boy of millions, who, perceiving his error, threw himself at the king's feet.
The infatuation ran through all classes, and even the French Academy solicited for the honour of Law becoming their associate—this Scotchman was the only speculator they ever admitted into their body.
The evil hour, however, at last arrived; the immense machine became so complicated that even the head of Law began to turn with its rapid revolutions. In 1719 he created credit; but in May 1720, uncounted millions disappeared in air. Nothing was seen but paper and bankruptcy everywhere. Law was considered as the sole origin of the public misfortune, no one blaming his own credulity. The mob broke his carriages, destroyed his houses, and tried to find the arithmetician in order to tear him to pieces. He escaped from Paris in disguise, and long wandered in Europe incognito. After some years, he found a hiding-place in Venice, where he lived, poor, obscure, yet still calculating. Montesquieu, who saw him there, said: "He is still the same man; his mind ever busied in financial schemes; his head is full of figures, of agios, and of banks. His fortune is very small, yet he loves to game high." Indeed, of all his more than princely revenues, he only saved, as a wreck, a large white diamond, which, when he had no money, he used to pawn.
Voltaire saw his widow at Brussels. She was then as humiliated, as miserable, and as obscure, as she had been triumphant and haughty at Paris.
After the collapse of Law's schemes the stream of gaming returned to its ordinary channels, and high play continued as formerly to be the pastime of the noblesse, some of whom kept more or less public gaming-tables.
Not, however, till 1775 were public gaming-tables, somewhat resembling those still flourishing at Monaco, licensed in Paris. In that year Sartines, the celebrated "Lieutenant of Police," began to authorise regular "maisons de jeu," the profits of which were in principle supposed to be devoted to the foundation of hospitals, but in reality failed to reach their destined goal of philanthropy. The most popular game played was called "la belle." Certain privileged ladies, it may be added, were accorded permission to preside at the twelve gaming-tables of Paris twice a week. The bankers gave these attractive sorceresses six louis at each sitting, and paid all other expenses. A third day in the seven was set aside for the benefit of the police, who, once every week, ungallantly pocketed the six golden pieces of each of the presiding goddesses, most of whom were battered baronesses and ruined marchionesses, who had petitioned for the somewhat dubious honour of presiding at these tripots. Amongst them were Madame de Thouvenère, la Baronne de Gancière, and la Marquise de Sainte Doubeuville. The ladies were generally represented by deputies of the fair sex, who received a fair share of the wages of iniquity. The directors of the gaming-houses in question were as a rule the valets of grand seigneurs, the best known being a man called Gombaud, who acted as cashier-general. The success of the authorised "houses" led to the establishment of rival and clandestine tripots. The most celebrated of these private pandemoniums, which were practically "Hells," were kept by Madame de Selle, Rue Montmartre; la Comtesse Champeiron, Rue de Cléry; and Madame de Fonteneille. Rue de l'Arsenal. It was at the last-named place that Sartines, who often visited such places as a private individual for his own pleasure, narrowly escaped the blow of a poniard, on being recognised by a ruined gambler. A good deal of crime and misery was declared to arise from the existence of these gaming-houses, and at length, in 1781, after many suicides and bankruptcies innumerable, they were temporarily prohibited. The main cause, however, was that the brother of a favourite mistress of a pet courtier, after ruining himself and robbing a friend in order to obtain funds with which to play, had put an end to his existence, by blowing out his brains, at a gaming-house kept by Madame de la Serre, Place des Victoires. After this the demon of gaming took refuge at the Court, where shady financiers and well-dressed scoundrels carried on a very lucrative traffic almost under the nose of His Most Christian Majesty. The privileged hôtels of the ambassadors, where the police had no control, became also the sanctum sanctorum of the vampires of that period. In addition to this, after a short lapse of time, the original Golgothas were re-licensed, the game called "biribi" displacing "la belle," and becoming the popular road to ruin of the day.
Biribi is now probably quite obsolete. It was played upon a table which contained seventy numbers, to which there were corresponding numbers enclosed in a bag.
These the banker drew out one by one, the player whose money was on the corresponding number on the table being paid a sum equivalent to sixty-four times his stake. As at roulette, there were a great number of other chances—pair and impair, noir and rouge, du petit et du grand côté, la bordure du tableau, les terminaisons, and the like.
There were nine columns of numbers, each of which contained eight, with the exception of the middle column, which was the banker's; this consisted of six numbers only, which were considered zeroes.
Unattractive as this game must appear to a more sophisticated generation, biribi became a regular craze.