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Unit 9: The Traveller's Story of a Terribly Strange Bed by Wilkie Collins

unfortunately, as the event will show, I won—won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such Notes
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.
The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in every city in Europe, without, however, the
care or the wish to study the Theory of Chances—that philosopher’s stone of all gamblers!
In addition, a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole from
the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement. I never resorted to it by
necessity, because I never knew what it was to want money. I never practiced it so incessantly as
to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket without being
thrown off my balance by my good luck. In short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables—
just as I frequented ballrooms and opera houses—because they amused me, and because I had
nothing better to do with my leisure hours.

However, 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 favour of the bank. At first, some of the men present
ventured their money safely enough on my colour; 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. A deep-muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different languages interrupted
the silence, every time the gold was shovelled 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. Nevertheless, 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 that 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 honour, 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 moustaches, 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 has offered pinch of snuff; clapped him on the back,
and swore he was the most honest 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!”

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