The game was Rouge et Noir.  I had played at it in every city in Europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory of Chances—­that philosopher’s stone of all gamblers!  And a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, I had never been.  I was heart-whole from the corroding passion for play.  My gaming was a mere idle amusement.  I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what it was to want money.  I never practised it so incessantly as to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket without being thrown off my balance by my good luck.  In short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables—­just as I frequented ball-rooms and opera-houses—­because they amused me, and because I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours.

But on this occasion it was very different—­now, for the first time in my life, I felt what the passion for play really was.  My success first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of the word, intoxicated me.  Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true, that I only lost when I attempted to estimate chances, and played according to previous calculation.  If I left everything to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, I was sure to win—­to win in the face of every recognized probability in favour of the bank.  At first some of the men present ventured their money safely enough on my colour; but I speedily increased my stakes to sums which they dared not risk.  One after another they left off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game.

Still, time after time, I staked higher and higher, and still won.  The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch.  The silence was interrupted by a deep-muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different languages, every time the gold was shovelled across to my side of the table—­even the imperturbable croupier dashed his rake on the floor in a (French) fury of astonishment at my success.  But one man present preserved his self-possession, and that man was my friend.  He came to my side, and whispering in English, begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what I had already gained.  I must do him the justice to say that he repeated his warnings and entreaties several times, and only left me and went away after I had rejected his advice (I was to all intents and purposes gambling drunk) in terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried:  “Permit me, my dear sir—­permit me to restore to their proper place two napoleons which you have dropped.  Wonderful luck, sir!  I pledge you my word of honour, as an old soldier, in the course of my long experience in this sort of thing, I never saw such luck as yours—­never!  Go on, sir—­Sacre mille bombes! Go on boldly, and break the bank!”