Mr. Risque advanced to the end of the table, and stood motionless a
little while, drinking it all into his passionless eyes, which, like
sponges, absorbed whatever they saw, but nothing revealed. At last his
right hand dropped softly to his vest pocket, as though it had some
interest in deceiving his left hand.
Apparently unconscious of the act, the right hand next slid over the
table edge, and silently deposited a five-franc piece upon the black
compartment.
"Whiz-z-z-z" started the ball from the fingers of the coupeurs--"click"
dropped the ball into a black department of the board; "clink! tingle!"
cried the money, changing hands; but not a word said Auburn Risque,
standing like a stalagmite with his eyes upon ten francs.
"Whiz-z-z!"--"click!" "click!" "tingle!"
Did he see the fifteen francs at all, half trance-like, half
corpse-like, as he stood, waiting for the third revolution, and waiting
again, and again, and again?
His five francs have grown to be a hundred; his cold hand falls
freezingly upon them; five francs replace the hundred he took
away--"Whizz!" goes the ball; "click!" stops the ball; the coupeur
seizes Mr. Risque's five francs, and Mr. Risque walks away like a
somnambulist.
V.
BURIED IN THE COMMON DITCH.
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