With deft fingers he spins the active, rattling little ball.
“Le jeu est fait!”
The white ball begins to tire, drops out of its circuit.
“Rien ne va plus!”
A few seconds of leaping indecision and restlessness, before the ball falls finally into a number and remains there, while the board still spins.
“Trente-six!—Rouge, pair et manque!”
The croupiers’ rakes are busy, pulling in the money lost; the money won is thrown with dull, heavy thuds and clinks on to the table. In a few moments it is begun all over again.
“Faites votre jeu, messieurs!”
“So this is Monte Carlo!” whispered my sister, in the proper, hushed tones, as though asking me for something to put in the collection. “My one objection is, no one looks in the least haggard or anxious. I understood I should see such terrible faces, and they all look as bored as people at an ordinary London dinner-party. Take me round.”
Brentin came with us, and we visited each of the busy roulette-tables in turn. Monte Carlo was very full, and round some of the tables the crowd was so deep it was impossible to get near enough to look, much less to play. But between the tables there were large vacant spaces of dull-shining, greasy parquet; the tables looked like populous places on the map, and the flooring like open country. Here and there stood the footmen, straight out of an old Adelphi melodrama; some of them carried trays and glasses of water, and some gave you cards to mark the winning numbers and the colors.