Meanwhile, Madelon, once more absorbed in the game, is
meditating her grand _coup_. Hitherto she has been playing
cautiously, her capital accumulating gradually, but surely,
till she has quite a heap of gold and notes before her. It is
already a fortune in her eyes, and she thinks, if she could
only double this all at once, then indeed would the great task
be accomplished; she might go then, she might write to
Monsieur Horace, she would see him again--ah! what joy, what
happiness! Should she venture? Surely it would be very rash to
risk all that at once--and yet if she were to win--and she has
been so lucky this evening-- her heart leaps up again--she
hesitates a moment, then pushes the whole on to the black,
reserving only one ten-franc piece, and sits pale, breathless,
incapable of moving, during what seemed to her the longest
minute in her life. It was only a minute--the croupier dealt
the cards--"_Rouge perd, et couleur_," he cried, paid the smaller
stakes, and then, counting out gold and notes, pushed over to
her what was, in fact, a sufficiently large sum, and which, to
her inexperienced eyes, seemed enormous.
Pages:
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458