She became feverish, a sensation of unwonted languor took possession of her, and sleep, nevertheless, became almost impossible.  Georges, engrossed in his play, observed but little the deterioration of his wife’s health; or, perhaps, attributed it to her condition and to nervousness in regard to her approaching trial.  Things were in this state, when, one day towards the close of May Georges took his customary seat at the rouge et noir table.  The weather had suddenly become extremely hot, and the crowd in the `salles de jeu’ had considerably diminished.  Only serious and veteran habitues were left, staking their gold, for the most part, with the coolness and resolution of long experience.  Pauline remained in her room, she felt too ill to rise, and attributed her indisposition to the heat.  Very sick at heart, George entered the gaming-rooms alone, and laid out on the green cloth the last of his capital.  Then occurred one of those strange and compete reversions of luck that come to very few men.  Georges won continuously, without a break, throughout the entire day.  After an hour or two of steady success, he grew elated, and began to stake large sums,—­ with a recklessness that might have appalled others than the old stagers who sat beside him.  But his temerity brought golden returns, every stake reaped a fruitful harvest, and louis d’or accumulated in tall piles at his elbow.  Before the rooms closed he had become a rich man, and had won back Pauline’s dowry forty times over.  Men turned to look at him as he left the tables, his face white with fatigue, his eyes burning like live coals, and his gait unsteady as a drunkard’s.  Outside in the open air, everything appeared to him like a dream.  He could not collect his thoughts; his brain whirled; he had eaten nothing all day, fearing to quit his place lest he should change his luck or lose some good coup, and now extreme faintness overcame him.  Stooping over the great basin of the fountain in front of the Casino he bathed his face with his hands, and eagerly drew in the cool evening breeze of the Mediterranean, just sweeping up sweet and full of refreshment over the parched rock of Monte Carlo.  Then he made his way home, climbed with toil the high narrow staircase, and entered the little apartment he shared with Pauline.  In the sitting room he paused a minute, poured out a glass of wine and drank it at a draught, to give himself courage to tell her his good news like a man.  His hand turned the key of his bedroom; his heart beat so wildly that its throbbing deafened him; he could not hear his own voice as he cried:  `Pauline—­darling! —­we are rich! my luck has turned!’ . . .  But then he stopped, stricken by a blow worse than the stroke of death.  Before him stood Dr S., and a woman whom he did not recognise, bending over the bed upon which Pauline lay, pallid and still, with hands folded upon her breast.  Georges flung his porte-monnaie, stuffed with notes, upon the foot of the bed, and sank down on his knees beside it, his eyes fixed upon his young wife’s face.  Dr S. touched him upon the shoulder.