Again he asked for patience and staked a hundred-franc note.  At that moment the man sitting at the table in front of him rose, and the dwarf slipped swiftly into his seat.  He won his hundred francs and made the same stake again.  It was obvious that the little man did not damn gambling.  It was a sin to which he appeared peculiarly inclined.  The true inwardness of the perilous adventure began to dawn on me.  He had come here to make the money wherewith he could further his gigantic combinations.  All this mystery was part of his childish cunning.  I hardly knew whether to box the little creature’s ears, to box my own, or to laugh.  I compromised with a smile on the last alternative, and baccarat being a dreary game to watch, I strolled off to the nearest ecarte table, and, to justify my presence in the room, backed one of the players.

Presently my attention was called to the baccarat table by a noise as of some dispute, and turning, I saw the gentleman in the dinner-jacket hurrying to what appeared to be the storm centre, the place where Anastasius was sitting.  Suspecting some minor peril, I left the ecarte players, and joined the gentleman in the dinner-jacket.  It seemed that the hand, which is played in rotation by those seated at each tableau or half-table, had come round for the first time to Anastasius, and objection had been taken to his playing it, on the score of his physical appearance.  The dwarf was protesting vehemently.  He had played baccarat in all the clubs of Europe, and had never received such treatment.  It was infamous, it was insulting.  The malcontents of the punt paid little heed to his remonstrances.  They resented the entrusting of their fortunes to one whose chin barely rose above the level of the table.  The banker lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair with a smile of mockery.  His attitude brought up the superfluous flesh about his chin and the roll of fat at the back of his neck.  With his moustache en croc, and his shoebrush hair, I have rarely beheld a more sensual-looking desperado.

“But gentlemen,” said he, “I see no objection whatever to Monsieur playing the hand.”

“Naturally,” retorted a voice, “since it would be to your advantage.”

The raven in the dinner-jacket commanded silence.

“Gentlemen, I decide that, according to the rules of the game, Monsieur is entitled to play the hand.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed one or two of my friend’s supporters.

“C’est idiot!” growled the malcontents.

“Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” cried the croupier.

The stakes were laid, the banker looked around, estimating the comparative values of the two tableaux.  Anastasius had backed his hand with a pile of louis.  To encourage him, and to conciliate the hostile punt, I threw down a hundred-franc note.

“Les jeux sont faits?  Rien ne va plus.”

The banker dealt, two cards to each tableau, two to himself.  Anastasius, trembling with nervous excitement, stretched out a palsied little fist towards the cards.  He drew them towards him, face downwards, peeped at them in the most approved manner, and in a husky voice called for an extra card.