You walk along the parade-ground of the Terrace where wealth and style show themselves to themselves, and then enter the gloomy portals of the gaming-halls, and you step at once into a new and very serious atmosphere. You feel something of the seriousness of an animal's mind when it has become conscious of the existence somewhere of a trap. The Casino is like a great club. You leave your hat and stick and coat. You go upstairs, not as a visitor, but as one at home. The place is moving with well-dressed people, some passing one way, some another. You show your pass-ticket, and come not without trepidation to the actual tables. I have all my travelling expenses in my pocket--what if I get infected and put all on to a number? The first impression is pleasant. In a mellow, golden light, a whole series of happy afternoon-parties have been arranged. Groups of interesting strangers have found a common interest and are sitting side by side in perfect good manners around tables. There is only one row of seats round each table, no tiers of seats. It is like a party at home. At the back of those who sit others are standing looking on--not indifferently. Tokens--chips, as they are called--are being placed on various numbers, on the chance of a red number, or the chance of a black number, on the chance of an even or on the chance of uneven, pair or Impair, _passe_ or _manque_. It is so elementary that even the dullest of Europeans can grasp the game at a few glances. The croupiers, with their rakes, also sit at table (among the guests), and help see that all is in order. The ball spins round. It rattles. It loses its clear course and will come to rest in a slot. It does. Some have won, many have lost. The many parties, each with its separate table and distinct stories of chance and luck going on, are intense and preoccupied. The sitters have notebooks in which they record the numbers which win and on which they base their future "play." Some play exclusively on colour, others on odds and evens, others on the dozens, others on _voisinage_, others on numbers, some on zero. It is very serious. In the secret hearts of the sitters some liken themselves to Napoleon, who, they are persuaded, was at once one of the greatest of gamblers and the greatest of men. Some are would-be Cagliostros and Michael Scotts. You see the stupid, brainy European, devoid of superstition as he thinks, and yet eaten up with natural superstition. You see also the emotional turbulent soul developing abnormality and mania on absurd stakes for money, the mad, unpractical Russian staking on zero or on the slenderest chance for the greatest of gains. The Russians and the Jews and the Americans are the greatest of gamblers.