Presently her gaze rested on the entrance to the Casino. A stream of people was passing in and out. The band was playing a jazz which she loved, and the music stirred her pulse. For the moment the thought of her distress rested less heavily on her mind. And then, all at once, the gambling fever, which had temporarily subsided, began to reassert itself. Play would be in full swing now, she reflected. She pictured the crowd grouped around the roulette. She heard the croupier’s bored voice droning “Faites vos jeux,” and “Rien n’va plus,” and the rattle of the little ball as it spun merrily round in the revolving well. Then she saw the numbers slowing down, saw them stop, and heard the croupier calling: “Le numéro quinze!”
She opened her vanity bag, pulled out the money it contained, and proceeded to count it carefully. It was all the ready money she possessed. Certainly it did not amount to enough to settle her hotel bill for the past fortnight, and the bill was bound to be presented soon. She had come to look upon winning at the tables as a matter of daily routine. Also, she yearned to play again. The Casino with its heated atmosphere, its scented women, its piles of notes and its chink of gold, seemed to be calling to her, beckoning her to come and fill her depleted coffers at its generous fount of wealth, especially now that she needed money. For a brief moment she thought of Preston, and of their last meeting, and of his earnest warning. Then, dispelling the disagreeable reflection, she stuffed her money back into her bag, shut it with a snap, rose, and walked quickly in the direction of the famous Temple of Mammon.
She had little difficulty in securing a seat. For a minute or two she watched the play. Then she backed the number she had thought of while in the gardens—le numéro quinze.
It came up.
She backed it again, and once more swept in her winnings. Then she started playing en plein, recklessly and with big stakes, as she had been in the habit of doing. But her luck had suddenly changed. Again and again she lost. She doubled, and trebled, and quadrupled her stakes.
But still she lost.
In less than half an hour she had only a single louis left, and, rising abruptly, she walked out of the salon like a woman in a dream.
A louis! Of what use was that? She went back to her hotel, and locked herself in her room. Her brain felt on fire. She thought she was going mad. She wanted to cry, but could not.
For an hour she lay on her bed, suffering mental agony. Then with an effort she got up, and sent off a telegram.