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Updated: August 27, 2024
Above the clink of coin, the rustle of bank-notes, the click-click of the ivory ball upon the disc, and the low hum of voices, there rose the monotonous voices of the croupiers: "Rien n'va plus!" "Quatre premier deux pièces!" "Zéro! un louis!" "Dernier douzaine un pièce!" "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"
A voice at each table as she drew near or passed made some announcement. She caught the words distinctly yet not loudly pronounced: "Faites vos jeux, messieurs.... Rien n'va plus. Onze, noir, impair et manque." "Onze" was one of the numbers the French couple had decided to play.
The same heavy stillness, emphasised by the continuous chink, chink of gold and silver, and broken only by the announcement of events at different tables: "Onze, noir, impair et manque"; "Rien ne va plus"; "Zèro!" The same onze; the same rien n'va plus; the same zèro heralded in the same secretly joyous, outwardly apologetic tone, by the croupiers fortunate enough to produce it.
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