He is "Chez Paz"
The attendant returning with the cigar, the Irishman lit it leisurely, and sat puffing with an enjoyment heightened by the fact that he had been deprived of the luxury of cigars for some weeks.
Presently he turned his attention to the board, and acted a little farce for his own self-satisfaction.
With the air of a man of means, who merely desires to while away an idle hour—win or lose—O'Rourke thrust his hand into his breast pocket and produced a small wallet, tolerably plump and opulent-looking—a result due to ingenious stuffing with paper of no value.
He weighed it in his palm, seeming to debate with himself, then deliberately returned it to the pocket. His manner spoke plainly to the observer—were there one: "No; I'll risk but a trifle of change."
Abstractedly he thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the said change; to his utter surprise it turned out to be no more than five silver francs!
But finally he made up his mind to play that utterly insignificant sum.
At that moment the ball rattled, was silent. There was an instant's strained silence. The wheel stopped.
"Vingt-quatre," remarked the dispassionate croupier; "noir, pair et passe!"
He poised his rake, overlooking the great board.
The young lieutenant arose suddenly, knocking over his chair; he stood swaying for a moment, his fingers beating a nervous tattoo upon the edge of the board; he was pale, his face hollow-seeming and hopeless in the strong illumination. Others looked at him incuriously. He put his hand to his lips, almost apologetically, essayed what might have been intended for a defiant smile, turned, and moved uncertainly
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