'Get up, madam,' said the ruined gambler, 'the bed on which you
lie belongs to us no longer!' . . .
When the gamester is fortunate, he enjoys his success elsewhere;
to his home he brings only consternation.
A wife had received the most solemn promise from her husband that
he would gamble no more. One night, however, he slunk out of
bed, rushed to the gaming table, and lost all the money he had
with him. He tried to borrow more, but was refused. He went
home. His wife had taken the precaution to lock the drawer that
contained their last money. Vain obstacle! The madman broke it
open, carried off two thousand crowns--to take his revenge, as he
said, but in reality to lose the whole as before.
But it is to the gaming room that we must go to behold the
progress of the terrible drama--the ebb and flow of opposite
movements--the shocks of alternate hope and fear, infinitely
varied in the countenance, not only of the actors, but also of
the spectators. What is visible, however, is nothing in
comparison to the secret agony. It is in his heart that the
tempest roars most fiercely.