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.
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