There was something in his tone that
rather jarred on me, but I recollected that
he was always subject to these alternations,
passing from a most cordial, genial, and
even softened tone, into a cold, bitter, and
hostile manner. It was his way. He was
a disappointed man, so we must have allowance.
So that day terminated. Somehow
the calm country town monotony of
mind which I had brought with me seems
to have given way a little before the whirl,
as it were, of this place—the strange
figures, the dramatic incidents, the curious
motives of this place. But I am learning
precious lessons. It is like tonics and
cold baths for the mind. After all, how
many of us go through life without having
even the faintest conception of what
is going on, no conception of what attitudes,
and motions, and wonderful freaks
the human mind is capable of. Novels
and plays tell us a good deal, but we do
not believe in them. One day lets in a
light worth a thousand of Mudie's " sets."
Shall I own that I dwell with complacency
on the fact that I, a mere rustic,
ungraduated in the world's devices, should
have held "my own" in that little scene
to-day, by the sheer force of good plain
sense and reason? Thank Heaven, I am
growing better every hour! Heaven is
very good to us, certainly.

CHAPTER X.

TUESDAY.—An interval of some days has
passed without my writing a line. The
fact is, the hours are running by so fast,
and so many little events crowd into the
day, that I have hardly time to do anything.
I have even got a little backward
in my letters to my pet. I have been
making a sort of study of this mysterious
and dangerous science of chances, which is
luring all these poor souls to destruction.
It is one of the most curious subjects of
inquiry, and there can be no doubt that
there is more in it than the common vulgar
affectation of superior knowledge will
admit. If I could but freshen up my old
mathematics, I could work the thing out
regularly. The doctor tells me that having
something of interest thus to amuse and
occupy the mind is the real secret of
my improvement. I could have told
him that. Shall I own to another discovery
I have made, viz., that when Mephistopheles
is playing for souls, he does
it with tolerable fairness. I constantly
hear men, Englishmen too, going out with
flushed faces, and muttering, " Pack of
d—d swindlers—set of cheats!" Now,
a very narrow scrutiny compels me to own
that their dealings are fair, or seem fair.
Shall I go further, and say that they really
seem to put themselves at a disadvantage
with those they encounter. That, of course,
is their business, not mine. I spent four
hours the other morning watching the
game, and I suppose riddled some half a
dozen cards with pin-holes. The result
was the same in the main, I see the
system like a revelation, adding to it, from
experience, this rider: the splendid gift of
self-restraint. There they all break down;
they cannot halt in time, even for five
minutes. One would be tempted to go
and whisper this simple recipe to each one
of the poor dupes who are rushing down
this fatal hill; but it is not my business.
Quem Deus vult perdere. I could not save
them, though he could. I see at these
little seats of extortion—the stalls where
they sell photographs and ornaments at
literally double the price they can be had
anywhere else—I see absolute treatises on
the game. One a serious volume at twenty
francs; the others little handbooks at a
franc, giving " a sure and infallible method
for winning." These little impostures were
diverting from the solemn tables set out
and the grand terms. " The intermittance,"
"series," and the oracular advice.
The qualities requisite for the gambler are
to be " courage, vigour, élan, coolness, and
insensibility." " System," above all, must
be pursued (and so far I go with him);
"otherwise," he adds, gravely, " you will
indeed remain a simple player (joueur),
but you will never become speculateur."
He fills pages with his various recipes, but
at the end announces that without a
capital of some four thousand florins you
will not have "a secure base of operation
to work from." And yet I see this rubbish
in the hands of many a poor fool; and,
what is more, I see many a greater fool
sitting industriously with his book and two
pencils, one red and one black, marking
the colours. One dreadful old fellow, who
is nearly blind, has a complete apparatus—
a little dial, mounted on a pincushion, and
bristling all over with red and black-
headed pins, which he shifts about, and
not for half an hour, perhaps, will the safe
combination he so desires, arise, and then
he plays his miserable florin. Of course he
loses, as indeed I could have told him. I
was almost tempted to lay my hand upon
his arm and check him; but, as I have
said so often, that is not my business.