Some curious additions to the Chronique
Scandaleuse might be furnished from the
maisons de jeu. As it was, each house had
its share of histories and miraculous turns of
fortune, all unfolded in due course to the
admiring stranger. How there was to be
seen a player, who played every day
unvaryingly for a single quarter of an hour and
not an instant longer, and who during that
span lost three or four thousand francs, or else
won twelve or fifteen thousand; and who
had thus earned the soubriquet or pet
prenomen of Massena. How again another, a
young provincial, had come up on the eve of
his marriage, to purchase nuptial presents
or his bride with only fifteen francs in his
pocket; how he had strayed into one of these
houses, and gone his way home rejoicing
bearing with him many costly offerings for
his fiancee, and ninety thousand francs in
clean notes besides! How again a
Strasbourg café-keeper came up to town to see
the sights, wandered in for a few moments,
and issued forth with a rich booty of
over two hundred thousand francs. Such
gorgeous legends have a savour as of Arabian
Nights, filling the neophyte's heart with
strange enthusiasm, and send him to the
tables filled with longing hope and desire.
But, there is another history of a more
mysterious character, inspiring awe and
a certain freezing of the nerves. The scene
is at Frascati's, at about two hours past
midnight; a grey and grizzed general, with
long-pointed moustaches, whose breast is
garnished with the St. Esprit, St. Louis, and
Legion of Honneur, has been playing
desperately since ten o'clock; playing until all
his broad lands in Normandy have utterly
melted away. For, there has been standing
behind him all the night an accommodating
Hebrew, to whom the poor general's acres
are well known, and who has been liberal in
his advances on the security of the general's
little note. But, now, the Hebrew, knowing
that the land has on it as much as it will
bear, declines further accommodation; and
the old officer sits in a corner with his face
covered up in his hands. He is titterly
écrasé, abattu, say winners and losers as
they pass by, looking curiously at the broken
warrior. But the worst is, that he has
wildly staked his little daughter's portion—
now sleeping unconsciously far away in her
Normandy convent—and that too has gone
the way of the rest. And this is what has
so completely bowed him down to the earth.
Meantime, amid the hum of excited tongues,
and the chinking of gold and silver
monies, a tall stranger, wrapped in a long
cloak, has entered very quietly. It was
noted by a few lookers-on that he is pale,
and that his eyes are strangely brilliant,
and that he has coal black hair pushed back
from his forehead. He drew near to the
grey general, and after a time sat down
carelessly just behind him. Then he touched
him lightly on the shoulder, and began
whispering earnestly; the grey general not
heeding him very much at first. Gradually
he grew more attentive, and at last suffered
himself to be drawn into the window, where
he had a long conversation with the dark
stranger. Whence he was soon after seen to
come forth, very pale, and with compressed
  lips, but with something like a heavy purse
in his hand. What could it mean? Was
this another obliging Hebrew? However,
place was made for the grey general at the
table, who, with trembling fingers, heaped
up a glittering pile before him, and began to
play. First he had strange luck, and his
golden heap began to rise high; when,
suddenly, his fortune turned. Gradually the pile
began to dwindle, falling away by degrees,
until there were left but two or three bright
pieces, which at the next cast were gone also.
All this while the tall stranger might have
been seen standing afar off in the doorway,
with his cloak folded about him, and smiling
coldly as the grey general's heap melted
away. When all was over and the last piece
gone, he beckoned over to the grey general
with an ivory-like forefinger, who thereupon
rose up without a word and walked towards
the door, and in another instant he and the
tall stranger had departed together. For a
few moments players looked uneasily at each
other and whispered mysteriously, and then
the game went on as before through the
whole of that night. But, early next morning,
certain wood-cutters going to their work
hard by the Bois de Boulogne, came upon
the body of a grey-haired officer, with grey-
twisted moustaches, lying upon his back, with
discoloured marks about his throat. The
significance of the dark stranger became then
known: and was talked of for many nights
in salons de jeu. The legend became a
player's legend, and was thenceforth known
as the History of Le Général Gris. He is
but a type after all; for there were to be seen
many, many such ancient warriors, casting
away their hard won substance, and driven
to their trusty swords as a last refuge from
disgrace and ruin.

Other chronicles are there, no less curious,
especially those concerning certain
tracasseries played off on the bank. The bank is
only fair game for such craft, being held to
be a ravening monster preying upon all
unhappy players; therefore are all such
narratives of chicane welcomed with a certain gusto
and enjoyment. Once upon a time (so runs
the tradition) two young men strolled into
Frascati's, each laying down his fifty double
louis upon different colours. The cards were
dealt in due course, and the red came up as
winning colour. Monsieur A gently gathered
up his fifty louis, and passed away silently
from the room. Monsieur B, whose fifty
had been swept in by the croupier's rake,
was following when he was stopped by
Messieurs de la Cbambre. Monsieur le Croupier,