Men's thoughts, in this region, seemed to centre night and day upon
the tapis vert, and at the entrance of this salon was that fatal chamber,
over which might have been written the famous line of Dante, "Voi che
entrate lasciate ogni speranza." The reader will at once understand
that I am referring to the gambling-house, the so-called "hell" of modern
society. In one room was the rouge et noir table, which, from the hour
of twelve in the morning, was surrounded by men in every stage of the
gambling malady. There was the young pigeon, who, on losing his first
feather, had experienced an exciting sensation which, if followed by
a bit of good luck, gave him a confidence that the parasites around
him, in order to flatter his vanity, would call pluck. There were others
in a more advanced stage of the fever, who had long since lost the greater
part of their incomes, having mortgaged their property, and been in
too frequent correspondence with the Jews. These men had not got to
the last stage of gambling despair, but they were so far advanced on
the road to perdition that their days were clouded by perpetual anxiety,
which reproduced itself in their very dreams. The gambler who has thus
far advanced in his career, lives in an inferno of his own creation:
the charms of society, the beauty of woman, the attractions of the fine
arts, and even the enjoyment of a good dinner, are to him rather a source
of irritation than delight. The confirmed gamester is doing nothing
less than perpetually digging a grave for his own happiness.

The third and most numerous group of men round the tapis vert consisted
of a class most of whom had already spent their fortunes, exhausted
their health, and lost their position in society, by the fatal and demoralizing
thirst for gold, which still fascinated them. These became the hawks
of the gambling table; their quick and wild-glancing eyes were constantly
looking out for suitable game during the day, and leaving it where it