“You have chosen an excellent evening,” said he. “There are a great many people, and the banks are large.” He bowed and passed on. A dingy waiter took our hats and coats and hung them up. Anastasius plucked me by the sleeve. “If you don't mind staking a little for the sake of appearances, I shall be grateful.” I whispered: “Can you tell me now, my dear Professor, for what reason you have brought me to this gaming-hell?” He looked up at me out of his mournful eyes and murmured, “_Patienza, lieber Herr_.” Then spying a vacant place behind the chairs at the baccarat table, he darted thither, and I followed in his wake. There must have been about a couple of hundred louis in the bank, which was held by a dissipated, middle-aged man who, having once been handsome in a fleshy way, had run to fat. His black hair, cropped short, stood up like a shoebrush, and when he leaned back in his chair a roll of flesh rose above his collar. I disliked the fellow for his unhealthiness, and for the hard mockery in his puffy eyes. The company seemed fairly homogeneous in its raffishness, though here and there appeared a thin, aristocratic face, with grey moustache and pointed beard, and the homely anxious visage of a small tradesman. But in bulk it looked an ugly, seedy crowd, with unwashed bodies and unclean souls. I noticed an Italian or two, and a villainous Englishman with a face like that of a dilapidated horse. A glance at the table plastered with silver and gold showed me that they were playing with a five-franc minimum. Anastasius drew a handful of louis from his pocket and staked one. I staked a five-franc piece. The cards were dealt, the banker exposed a nine, the highest number, and the croupier's flat spoon swept the table. A murmur arose. The banker was having the luck of Satan. “He always protects me, the good fellow,” laughed the banker, who had overheard the remark.