"We are the under dogs and were born to be victims. Gambling is an image of life: the strong triumph over the weak."
Spadoni remained thoughtful.
"I have seen wealthy gamblers," he said, "who were finally ruined like the rest."
"Because they don't stop in time, at the point where the resisting power of their capital brings the hour of winning. In life, as well, the great devourers, soldiers, multi-millionaires, and rulers, are in turn devoured in the final leveling: death. But before that time, they triumph through a powerful means that fate has placed in their hands. We who are poor, never triumph continuously for a whole day. Trying to win a great fortune with small capital is equivalent to wanting to lose that small capital."
They both fell silent, discouraged; but Novoa seemed to have suffered the contagion of his companion's dreams, and felt the necessity of bolstering him up again with some fantastic meditation fit for a gambler.
"You know, Spadoni, how much one can win with a thousand francs? Last night I undertook to make the calculation."
He pointed to a piece of paper covered with figures which was protruding from among the cards. So Novoa was up to the same tricks as the pianist!
"With a thousand francs, doubling each time in forty-three games (some four hours), one could win a block of gold a hundred thousand million times as large as the sun."
"Oh, Professor!"
They both looked at each other with mystic ardor, as though they were actually contemplating this immeasurable block. Beside such a vision what did the winnings of a few paltry millions mean?