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punters； and cried； in a sharp voice； 〃Make your game！〃 as the young
man came in。 The silence seemed to grow deeper as all heads turned
curiously towards the new arrival。 Who would have thought it？ The
jaded elders； the fossilized waiters； the onlookers； the fanatical
Italian himself； felt an indefinable dread at sight of the stranger。
Is he not wretched indeed who can excite pity here？ Must he not be
very helpless to receive sympathy； ghastly in appearance to raise a
shudder in these places； where pain utters no cry； where wretchedness
looks gay； and despair is decorous？ Such thoughts as these produced a
new emotion in these torpid hearts as the young man entered。 Were not
executioners known to shed tears over the fair…haired； girlish heads
that had to fall at the bidding of the Revolution？
The gamblers saw at a glance a dreadful mystery in the novice's face。
His young features were stamped with a melancholy grace； his looks
told of unsuccess and many blighted hopes。 The dull apathy of the
suicide had made his forehead so deadly pale； a bitter smile carved
faint lines about the corners of his mouth； and there was an
abandonment about him that was painful to see。 Some sort of demon
sparkled in the depths of his eye； which drooped； wearied perhaps with
pleasure。 Could it have been dissipation that had set its foul mark on
the proud face； once pure and bright； and now brought low？ Any doctor
seeing the yellow circles about his eyelids； and the color in his
cheeks； would have set them down to some affection of the heart or
lungs； while poets would have attributed them to the havoc brought by
the search for knowledge and to night…vigils by the student's lamp。
But a complaint more fatal than any disease； a disease more merciless
than genius or study； had drawn this young face； and had wrung a heart
which dissipation； study； and sickness had scarcely disturbed。 When a
notorious criminal is taken to the convict's prison； the prisoners
welcome him respectfully； and these evil spirits in human shape；
experienced in torments； bowed before an unheard…of anguish。 By the
depth of the wound which met their eyes； they recognized a prince
among them； by the majesty of his unspoken irony； by the refined
wretchedness of his garb。 The frock…coat that he wore was well cut；
but his cravat was on terms so intimate with his waistcoat that no one
could suspect him of underlinen。 His hands； shapely as a woman's were
not perfectly clean； for two days past indeed he had ceased to wear
gloves。 If the very croupier and the waiters shuddered； it was because
some traces of the spell of innocence yet hung about his meagre；
delicately…shaped form； and his scanty fair hair in its natural curls。
He looked only about twenty…five years of age； and any trace of vice
in his face seemed to be there by accident。 A young constitution still
resisted the inroads of lubricity。 Darkness and light； annihilation
and existence； seemed to struggle in him； with effects of mingled
beauty and terror。 There he stood like some erring angel that has lost
his radiance； and these emeritus…professors of vice and shame were
ready to bid the novice depart； even as some toothless crone might be
seized with pity for a beautiful girl who offers herself up to infamy。
The young man went straight up to the table； and； as he stood there；
flung down a piece of gold which he held in his hand； without
deliberation。 It rolled on to the Black； then； as strong natures can；
he looked calmly； if anxiously； at the croupier； as if he held useless
subterfuges in scorn。
The interest this coup awakened was so great that the old gamesters
laid nothing upon it； only the Italian； inspired by a gambler's
enthusiasm； smiled suddenly at some thought； and punted his heap of
coin against the stranger's stake。
The banker forgot to pronounce the phrases that use and wont have
reduced to an inarticulate cry〃Make your game。 。 。 。 The game is
made。 。 。 。 Bets are closed。〃 The croupier spread out the cards； and
seemed to wish luck to the newcomer； indifferent as he was to the
losses or gains of those who took part in these sombre pleasures。
Every bystander thought he saw a drama； the closing scene of a noble
life； in the fortunes of that bit of gold； and eagerly fixed his eyes
on the prophetic cards； but however closely they watched the young
man； they could discover not the least sign of feeling on his cool but
restless face。
〃Even！ red wins；〃 said the croupier officially。 A dumb sort of rattle
came from the Italian's throat when he saw the folded notes that the
banker showered upon him； one after another。 The young man only
understood his calamity when the croupiers's rake was extended to
sweep away his last napoleon。 The ivory touched the coin with a little
click； as it swept it with the speed of an arrow into the heap of gold
before the bank。 The stranger turned pale at the lips； and softly shut
his eyes； but he unclosed them again at once； and the red color
returned as he affected the airs of an Englishman； to whom life can
offer no new sensation； and disappeared without the glance full of
entreaty for compassion that a desperate gamester will often give the
bystanders。 How much can happen in a second's space； how many things
depend on a throw of the die！
〃That was his last cartridge； of course；〃 said the croupier； smiling
after a moment's silence； during which he picked up the coin between
his finger and thumb and held it up。
〃He is a cracked brain that will go and drown himself；〃 said a
frequenter of the place。 He looked round about at the other players；
who all knew each other。
〃Bah！〃 said a waiter； as he took a pinch of snuff。
〃If we had but followed HIS example；〃 said an old gamester to the
others； as he pointed out the Italian。
Everybody looked at the lucky player； whose hands shook as he counted
his bank…notes。
〃A voice seemed to whisper to me；〃 he said。 〃The luck is sure to go
against that young man's despair。〃
〃He is a new hand；〃 said the banker； 〃or he would have divided his
money into three parts to give himself more chance。〃
The young man went out without asking for his hat； but the old
watch…dog； who had noted its shabby condition； returned it to him
without a word。 The gambler mechanically gave up the tally； and went
downstairs whistling Di tanti Palpiti so feebly； that he himself
scarcely heard the delicious notes。
He found himself immediately under the arcades of the Palais…Royal；
reached the Rue Saint Honore； took the direction of the Tuileries； and
crossed the gardens with an undecided step。 He walked as if he were in
some desert； elbowed by men whom he did not see； hearing through all
the voices of the crowd one voice alonethe voice of Death。 He was
lost in the thoughts that benumbed him at last； like the criminals who
used to be taken in carts from the Palais de Justice to the Place de
Greve； where the scaffold awaited them reddened with all the blood
spilt here since 1793。
There is something great and terrible about suicide。 Most people's
downfalls are not dangerous； they are like children who have not far
to fall； and cannot injure themselves； but when a great nature is
dashed down； he is bound to fall from a height。 He must have been
raised almost to the skies； he has caught glimpses of some heaven
beyond his reach。 Vehement must the storms be which compel a soul to
seek for peace from the trigger of a pistol。
How much young power starves and pines away in a garret for want of a
friend； for lack of a woman's consolation； in the midst of millions of
fellow…creatures； in the presence of a listless crowd that is burdened
by its wealth！ When one remembers all this； suicide looms large。
Between a self…sought death and the abundant hopes whose voices call a
young man to Paris； God only knows what may intervene； what contending
ideas have striven within the soul； what poems have been set aside；
what moans and what despair have been repressed； what abortive
masterpieces and vain endeavors！ Every suicide is an awful poem of
sorrow。 Where will you find a work of genius floating above the seas
of literature that can compare with this paragraph：
〃Yesterday； at four o'clock； a young woman threw herself into the
Seine from the Pont des Arts。〃
Dramas and romances pale before this concise Parisian phrase； so must
even that old frontispiece； The Lamentations of the glorious king of
Kaernavan； put in prison by his children； the sole remaining fragment
of a lost work that drew tears from Sterne at the bare perusalthe
same Sterne who deserted his own wife and family。
The stranger was beset with such thoughts as these； which passed in
fragments through his mind； like tattered flags fluttering above the
combat。 If he set aside for a moment the burdens of consciousness and
of memory； to watch the flower heads gently swayed by the breez