DOI article:
Harland, Henry: The friend of man
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.38746#0056
The Friend of Man
52
One’s pleasure was fugitive, however.
The neighbourhood of men, indeed ! The neighbourhood of
some two score very commonplace, very sordid men, seated or
standing about an ugly green table, intent upon a game of
baccarat, in a long, rectangular, ugly, gas-lit room. The banker
dealt, and the croupier shouted, and the punters punted, and
the ivory counters and mother-of-pearl plaques were swept now
here, now there ; and that was all. Everybody was smoking, of
course ; but the smell of the live cigarettes couldn’t subdue the
odour of dead ones, the stagnant, acrid odour of stale tobacco, with
which the walls and hangings of the place were saturated.
The thing and the people were as banale, as unremunerative,
as things and people for the most part are ; and dispiriting,
dispiriting. There was a hardness in the banality, a sort of
cold ferocity, ill-repressed. One turned away, bored, revolted.
It was better, after all, to look at the sea ; to think of the lonely
vessel, far out there, where a pin-point of fire still faintly blinked
and glimmered in the illimitable darkness.
But the' voice of the croupier was insistent. “ Faites vos jeux,
messieurs. Cinquante louis par tableau. Vos jeux sont faits ?
Rien ne va plus.” It was suggestive, persuasive, besides, to one
who has a bit of a gambler’s soul. I saw myself playing, I felt
the poignant tremor of the instant of suspense, while the result is
uncertain, the glow that comes if you have won, the twinge if
you have lost. “ La banque est aux encheres,” the voice
announced presently ; and I moved towards the table.
The sums bid were not extravagant. Ten, fifteen, twenty
louis ; thirty, fifty, eighty, a hundred.
“ Cent louis ? Cent ? Cent ?—Cent louis a la banque,” cried
the inevitable voice.
I glanced
52
One’s pleasure was fugitive, however.
The neighbourhood of men, indeed ! The neighbourhood of
some two score very commonplace, very sordid men, seated or
standing about an ugly green table, intent upon a game of
baccarat, in a long, rectangular, ugly, gas-lit room. The banker
dealt, and the croupier shouted, and the punters punted, and
the ivory counters and mother-of-pearl plaques were swept now
here, now there ; and that was all. Everybody was smoking, of
course ; but the smell of the live cigarettes couldn’t subdue the
odour of dead ones, the stagnant, acrid odour of stale tobacco, with
which the walls and hangings of the place were saturated.
The thing and the people were as banale, as unremunerative,
as things and people for the most part are ; and dispiriting,
dispiriting. There was a hardness in the banality, a sort of
cold ferocity, ill-repressed. One turned away, bored, revolted.
It was better, after all, to look at the sea ; to think of the lonely
vessel, far out there, where a pin-point of fire still faintly blinked
and glimmered in the illimitable darkness.
But the' voice of the croupier was insistent. “ Faites vos jeux,
messieurs. Cinquante louis par tableau. Vos jeux sont faits ?
Rien ne va plus.” It was suggestive, persuasive, besides, to one
who has a bit of a gambler’s soul. I saw myself playing, I felt
the poignant tremor of the instant of suspense, while the result is
uncertain, the glow that comes if you have won, the twinge if
you have lost. “ La banque est aux encheres,” the voice
announced presently ; and I moved towards the table.
The sums bid were not extravagant. Ten, fifteen, twenty
louis ; thirty, fifty, eighty, a hundred.
“ Cent louis ? Cent ? Cent ?—Cent louis a la banque,” cried
the inevitable voice.
I glanced