Old acquaintance who met him said that M. Linders
was a broken man, and that his best days were over: men who
had been accustomed to bet on his success, shrugged their
shoulders, and sought for some steadier and luckier player to
back; he himself, impatient of ill-luck, and of continual
defeat in the scenes of his former triumphs, grew restless and
irritable, wandered from place to place in search of better
fortune and better health, and at length, at the end of a
fortnight's stay at Wiesbaden, after winning a large sum at
_rouge-et-noir_, and losing half of it the next day, announced
abruptly that he was tired of Germany, and should set off at
once for Paris. Madelon had noticed the alteration in her
father less than anyone else perhaps; she was used to changes
of fortune, and whatever he might feel he never showed it in
his manner to her; outwardly, at least, this summer had
appeared to her very similar to any preceding one, and she was
too much accustomed to M. Linders' sudden moves, to find
anything unusual in this one, although, dictated as it was by
a caprice of weariness and disgust, it took them away from the
Germany tables just at the height of the season.
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