The
Mediterranean laps the beautiful shore at Monte Carlo and all along
the exquisite Eiviera--the palms and ferns are lovely--the air is soft
and exhilarating, and the gambler pursues his pleasing pastime amid
the sweetest spots on earth. From every country in the world the
flights of restless gamblers come like strange flocks of migrant
birds. The Russian gentleman escapes from the desolate plains of his
native land and luxuriates in the beautiful garden of Europe; the
queer inflections of the American's quiet drawl are heard everywhere
as he strolls round the tables; Roumanian boyards, Parisian swindlers,
Austrian soldiers, Hungarian plutocrats, flashy and foolish young
Englishmen--all gather in a motley crowd; and the British bookmaker's
interesting presence is obtrusive. His very accent--strident, coarse,
impudent, unspeakably low--gives a kind of ground-note to the hum of
talk that rises in all places of public resort, and he recruits his
delicate health in anticipation of the time when he will be able to
howl once more in English betting-rings.
But I am not so much concerned with the personality of the various
sorts of gamblers, and I assuredly have no pity to spare for the
gentry who lose their money.
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