Neither did the Prince care to be a witness, and he remained in his armchair, asking for another cocktail. In front of the door he could see passing those whom another's good luck had embittered, and were fleeing, and those who were arriving, attracted by the news of the event.
He remained alone, like a spectator who stays in the lobby of a theater and listens to the far-off pulsing thrills of the audience. Long intervals of silence passed. Later, there was a murmur, a sigh from the crowd, a buzz of exclamations circulating in low tones. Was Alicia still winning? Or was he going to see her appear like the Greek, shrugging her shoulders at the absurdity of fate?
He asked for still another glass; and gazing at the spirals of smoke from his cigar, he was falling asleep. Suddenly he sat up, imagining he had received a sharp blow on his shoulders. It was a mere illusion! He was alone. Gazing about him, he noticed the clock. It was two. He stood up and slowly walked toward the baccarat room.
The crowd had thinned out, but all those who had remained were taking a hand in the play. The enormous sum amassed by the Bank was a temptation. No need to fear that the winners would not be paid! Even the mere spectators who spend the night on their feet, sharing other people's emotion, were risking their money louis by louis, hoping that this burst of luck which wholly favored the bank, would change in favor of the crowd.
The first thing that Michael saw was an enormous heap of thousand franc notes, five thousand franc chips, and chips and bills of various amounts. It was a fortune. Then he noticed Alicia, sitting motionless in her seat, just as he had left her, with the expressionless face of a caryatid. Her eyes merely looked mechanically back and forth from that heap of wealth to the hands of the banker. She was smoking, smoking. On a tray which a lackey had placed reverently beside the victorious woman there was a pile of gold-tipped cigarette butts.
She seemed stupefied by her success, by the monotony of her constant luck.
The pianist was beginning to display a certain somnolence in his looks and in his voice. Mere winning seemed something insipid to him, after the flight of that admirable Greek. Similarly other famous gamblers had disappeared, as though not caring to authenticate by their presence such an absurd run of luck. The only real competitors were some English people from Beaulieu, whose automobiles were waiting below. This extraordinary game interested them, as though it were some unusual sport; they were anxious to fight against the Bank's good luck, with British tenacity, merely for the pleasure of overcoming it. The women, bony and distinguished looking, with very low necks and long trails to their gowns, ejaculated "oh!" in amazement, each time the croupier with his rake carried off their heavy bets, while the men drew from inner pockets of their Tuxedos, new handfuls of bills, greeting their defeat with metallic laughter.
In one blow Spadoni lost twenty thousand francs. Lubimoff had the fatal presentiment of a sailor who feels beneath his feet the shudder of the ship about to be torn open, of the soldier who feels instinctively the beginning of his rout.
Another blow; and the bank lost again.
Michael cautiously drew near the chair occupied by Alicia.