A
stern etiquette presided, and the gamblers shrouded themselves in
well-bred stoicism--losing without open distress or ire, winning without
open exultation. The old hands, especially, began play with a padlock on
the tongue and a mask upon the face. There are masks, however, that do
not hide the eye; and Miss Vizard caught some flashes that escaped the
masks even then at the commencement of the play. Still, external stoicism
prevailed, on the whole, and had a fixed example in the _tailleur_ and
the croupiers. Playing many hours every day in the year but Good-Friday,
and always with other people's money, these men had parted with passion,
and almost with sensation; they had become skillful automata, chanting a
stave, and raking up or scattering hay-cocks of gold, which to them were
counters.
It was with the monotonous voice of an automaton they intoned:
"Faites le jeu, messieu, messieu."
Then, after a pause of ten seconds:
"Le jeu est fait, messien."
Then, after two seconds:
"Rien ne va plus."
Then mumble--mumble--mumble.
Then, "La' Rouge perd et couleur," or whatever might be the result.
Then the croupiers first raked in the players' losses with vast
expedition; next, the croupiers in charge of the funds chucked the
precise amount of the winnings on to each stake with unerring dexterity
and the indifference of machines; and the chant recommenced, "Faites le
jeu, messieu.
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