"The story of the next few days is soon told. Hope, despair; hope again, followed by despair. I came down to my last hundred pounds. Over and over again, in the solitude of my room, I proved to myself how weak I had been in not doing this or that at the right moment; over and over again I proved to my own misery that it was due to my own lack of courage that I had not won back my fortune. I conned the numbers I had written down as they were called out. 'Fool, fool, fool!' I cried, striking my forehead. 'Wretched, contemptible coward!' I rose in the morning haggard and weary; I had not slept a moment all the night. There was still a chance left: I had a hundred pounds; I would play on a lower martingale, and as I won I would increase it. I did so. That day I remained at the tables ten hours without rising from the seat I had secured. I won, I lost, I won again, I lost again. A few minutes before the rooms closed I had followed my system to a point whereat, after a series of losses, it needed but a large amount to be staked to get all back again. I had this amount before me. On previous occasions I had drawn back at such a critical juncture, and had suffered for it by hearing the number called which, in its various winning chances, would have recouped, with large profit, all that had been lost in the series. I would not be guilty of this cowardice again. With a trembling hand I put every franc I had on the various chances which were certain this time to win. The number was called. Great God! I was beggared! Without a word I rose and went to my hotel. "Can you imagine the torments of hell, Rathbeal? I suffered them then. But there was worse in store for me. "Figures, figures, figures, red and black, living figures that moved, that spoke, that glared and mocked me--the voices of the croupiers, the exclamations of the gamesters, the rattle of the money--curses and benedictions--now surrounded by a blaze of light, now plunged into black darkness--painted women, men with hideous faces, lips that smiled and derided--these were the images that haunted me in the night. I had drunk brandy, contrary to my usual habit, for I was never fond of drink, and my brain was burning. From time to time I dozed, and scarcely knew whether I was awake or asleep, whether what I saw were phantoms or actual forms of things. Was that a knock at my door? Was that the voice of a waiter speaking to me outside? I did not answer; I did not move. What mattered anything now? If the door opened, it could signify nothing to me; if some person entered and went away, there was no interest in the movements to beguile me from the tortures I was suffering. Ruin and I were company enough.