Miss Maitland and Zoe led. Fanny and Harrington followed: for Miss Dover, elated by the blues--though, by-the-by, one hears of them as depressing--and encouraged by admiration and Chevet's violet-perfumed St. Peray, took Harrington's arm, really as if it belonged to her. They went into the library first, and, after a careless inspection, came to the great attraction of the place. They entered one of the gambling-rooms. The first impression was disappointing. There were two very long tables, rounded off at the ends: one for _trente et quarante_ and one for _roulette._ At each table were seated a number of persons, and others standing behind them. Among the persons seated was the dealer, or, in roulette, the spinner. This official sat in the center, flanked on each side by croupiers with rakes; but at each end of the table there was also a croupier with his rake. The rest were players or lookers-on; most of whom, by well-known gradations of curiosity and weakness, to describe which minutely would be to write a little comedy that others have already written, were drawn into playing at last. So fidgets the moth about the candle before he makes up what, no doubt, the poor little soul calls his mind. Our little party stopped first at _trente et quarante,_ and Zoe commenced her observations. Instead of the wild excitement she had heard of, there was a subdued air, a forced quiet, especially among the seated players. A stern etiquette presided, and the gamblers shrouded themselves in well-bred stoicism--losing without open distress or ire, winning without open exultation. The old hands, especially, began play with a padlock on the tongue and a mask upon the face. There are masks, however, that do not hide the eye; and Miss Vizard caught some flashes that escaped the masks even then at the commencement of the play. Still, external stoicism prevailed, on the whole, and had a fixed example in the _tailleur_ and the croupiers. Playing many hours every day in the year but Good-Friday, and always with other people's money, these men had parted with passion, and almost with sensation; they had become skillful automata, chanting a stave, and raking up or scattering hay-cocks of gold, which to them were counters. It was with the monotonous voice of an automaton they intoned: “Faites le jeu, messieu, messieu.” Then, after a pause of ten seconds: “Le jeu est fait, messieu.” Then, after two seconds: “Rien ne va plus.” Then mumble--mumble--mumble. Then, “La' Rouge perd et couleur,” or whatever might be the result. Then the croupiers first raked in the players' losses with vast expedition; next, the croupiers in charge of the funds chucked the precise amount of the winnings on to each stake with unerring dexterity and the indifference of machines; and the chant recommenced, “Faites le jeu, messieu.” Pause, ten seconds. “Le jeu est fait, messieu.” Pause, two seconds. “Rien ne va plus.”