He is "Chez Paz"
He lost. He played and won again. And again. He reached the mark, passed it, asked himself if he should not stop, now, when the gods were favoring him. …
He need not have asked; by no means could he have stopped; for the gambling fever was as fire in his veins. He played on, and on, and on. He won fabulously, with few reverses; lived for a time in a heaven of wealth, upborne by the fluttering, golden wings of chance—and, at length, awoke as from a dream, to find himself staring at an empty spot on the board before him—the place where temporarily his riches had rested ere they took unto themselves wings and vanished.
Not a single franc remained to him. He had lost.
"Gone?" he muttered blankly. "Faith, I didn't think—" He became aware that he was being watched, though indifferently; in particular the man with the beard was observing him with interest, having now for a third time returned.
O'Rourke yawned nonchalantly, suddenly on his mettle; he was not willing to let them see that he cared.
"Five francs," he thought, arising; "small price for a night's entertainment. Sure, I got the worth of me money, in excitement."
He looked at the clock; to his amazement the hands in-indicated two in the morning. Now the room was half deserted, the attendants gaping discreetly behind their hands. A few earnest devotees still clustered about the table, winning or losing in a blaze of febrile haste.
The ball clattered hollowly; the tones of the croupier only were the same:
"Onze! Noir, impair et manque!" and "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"—as though it were an epitaph,—as it too often is.
And when he left the room, O'Rourke marked that the bearded man was pushing back his chair and arising.
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