. . .In this unwholesome stillness, the voice of Fate's little book-keeper snuffles out the sacred formula:

"Faites vos jeux, messieurs, faites vos jeux!"

That is to say, make to the hidden god the sacrifice which he demands before he[Pg 52] shows himself. Then, somewhere from the crowd, a hand bright with certainty places imperiously the fruit of a year's work on numbers that cannot fail. Other adorers, more cunning, more circumspect, less confident, compound with luck, distribute their chances, compute illusive probabilities and, having studied the mood and peculiarities of the genius of the table, lay complex and knowing traps for it. Others, again, hand over a considerable portion of their happiness or their life, at random, to the caprice of numbers.

But now the second formula resounds:

"Rien ne va plus!"

That is to say, the god is about to speak! At this moment, an eye that could pierce the easy veil of appearances would dis. . . Read More