But on this occasion it was very different—­now, for the first time in my life, I felt what the passion for play really was.  My success first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of the word, intoxicated me.  Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true, that I only lost when I attempted to estimate chances, and played according to previous calculation.  If I left everything to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, I was sure to win—­to win in the face of every recognized probability in favor of the bank.  At first some of the men present ventured their money safely enough on my color; but I speedily increased my stakes to sums which they dared not risk.  One after another they left off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game.

Still, time after time, I staked higher and higher, and still won.  The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch.  The silence was interrupted by a deep-muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different languages, every time the gold was shoveled across to my side of the table—­even the imperturbable croupier dashed his rake on the floor in a (French) fury of astonishment at my success.  But one man present preserved his self-possession, and that man was my friend.  He came to my side, and whispering in English, begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what I had already gained.  I must do him the justice to say that he repeated his warnings and entreaties several times, and only left me and went away after I had rejected his advice (I was to all intents and purposes gambling drunk) in terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried:  “Permit me, my dear sir—­permit me to restore to their proper place two napoleons which you have dropped.  Wonderful luck, sir!  I pledge you my word of honor, as an old soldier, in the course of my long experience in this sort of thing, I never saw such luck as yours—­never!  Go on, sir—­Sacre mille bombes! Go on boldly, and break the bank!”

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me with inveterate civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged and braided surtout.

If I had been in my senses, I should have considered him, personally, as being rather a suspicious specimen of an old soldier.  He had goggling, bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose.  His voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and he had the dirtiest pair of hands I ever saw—­even in France.  These little personal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling influence on me.  In the mad excitement, the reckless triumph of that moment, I was ready to “fraternize” with anybody who encouraged me in my game.  I accepted the old soldier’s offered pinch of snuff; clapped him on the back, and swore he was the honestest fellow in the world—­the most glorious relic of the Grand Army that I had ever met with.  “Go on!” cried my military friend, snapping his fingers in ecstasy—­“Go on, and win!  Break the bank—­Mille tonnerres! my gallant English comrade, break the bank!”