This, as I recollect it, is how Mr. Faulkner told me his adventure.

THE TRAVELLER’S STORY OF A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED

Shortly after my education at college was finished, I happened to be staying at Paris with an English friend.  We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn.  One night we were idling about the neighbourhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves.  My friend proposed a visit to Frascati’s; but his suggestion was not to my taste.  I knew Frascati’s, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, merely for amusement’s sake, until it was amusement no longer, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house.  “For Heaven’s sake,” said I to my friend, “let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over it all.  Let us get away from fashionable Frascati’s, to a house where they don’t mind letting in a man with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or otherwise.”  “Very well,” said my friend, “we needn’t go out of the Palais Royal to find the sort of company you want.  Here’s the place just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see.”  In another minute we arrived at the door and entered the house, the back of which you have drawn in your sketch.

When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room.  We did not find many people assembled there.  But, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types—­lamentably true types—­of their respective classes.

We had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse.  There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism—­here there was nothing but tragedy—­mute, weird tragedy.  The quiet in the room was horrible.  The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often red—­never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned great-coat, who had lost his last sou, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer—­never spoke.  Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room.  I had entered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me was something to weep over.  I soon found it necessary to take refuge in excitement from the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on me.  Unfortunately I sought the nearest excitement, by going to the table and beginning to play.  Still more unfortunately, as the event will show, I won—­won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one another that the English stranger was going to break the bank.