‘Nineteen times … I counted!’ said Pray nervously. ‘This man’ll kill us all!’ He was the only one to complain, though throughout the evening he had only occasionally risked a hundred-crown chip, and even that he had usually withdrawn before play started. He said this, however, because he liked to give the impression that he played just as high as the others and that he too had lost heavily.
At this moment the party was joined by Fredi Wuelffenstein, who had been in one of the lower rooms. Despite the thick carpeting the sound of Fredi’s heavy tread on the stairs could be heard in the card-room. He walked like this because he believed it was how society people moved in England. He was drunk and his elbows were spread wide. He stopped behind the chair in which Laszlo was sitting.
Arzenovics gathered his chips together. Once again he pushed a pile of them out in front of him and leaning forwards so that his handsome, rather flushed, face was fully in the light, said: ‘Four thousand, who wants it?’
At this point Wuelffenstein pushed roughly at Laszlo’s shoulder and said: ‘Get up! I want to sit here!’ The words were an order, flung out arrogantly, without a ‘please’ or ‘by-your-leave’, as an ill-bred master might address his valet.
Gyeroffy was enraged. How dare this man speak to me like that! he thought. Who on earth does he think he is? Nothing would have induced Laszlo to get up. Anything, anything but that! It flashed through his mind, however, that he only had the right to stay where he was if he were playing; otherwise etiquette demanded that he give up his place. Sliding his chair forward, he rapped on the table and said: ‘Banco!’
Everyone looked up surprised, so unexpected was it that Laszlo, of all people, should enter the game … and for such high stakes. But that simple word banco inspired respect, even admiration. Even Wuelffenstein was brought to a halt.
Arzenovics dealt. Laszlo neatly placed his two cards one on top of the other and waited until the banker spoke. When the latter said ‘Je donne!’ he flashed them quickly, as he had seen Count Neszti do so often, not spreading them slowly as did hesitant, inexperienced players. His score was six, and he therefore said coolly: ‘Non!’ Arzenovics had the same.
‘En cartes!’ said someone correctly but unnecessarily. Laszlo, as he had seen the others do, threw his cards nonchalantly and accurately into the wide leather receptacle in the centre of the table, that dish so oddly named the panier merely because in all forms of baccarat every expression had to be French. The cards were dealt again. Again it was the bank that won.
‘My credit, please!’ called Laszlo to the Steward, who quickly brought forward a tray of chips and a paper for Laszlo’s signature. He signed and pushed four thousand-crown chips across the table to Arzenovics.
‘Do you want your revenge? You have the right, droit de suite,’ said Zeno.
‘Well then, get up!’ said Wuelffenstein from behind him. ‘I told you already I want to sit here!’
Gyeroffy glanced back over his shoulder; calmly, but between clenched teeth, he said: ‘I’ll stay where I am!’
‘But I asked before! You weren’t even in the game then! This place belongs to me!’
‘No one has the right to a seat until he has said Passe la main. That is the rule. You didn’t say it. Neither did Gyeroffy, but he entered the game before you.’
Wuelffenstein did not reply for, as Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi spoke, he let the monocle drop from his eye and this, as everyone knew, was a final ruling that could not be contested. Fredi moved over to the other side of the room and sat down with an offended air. Laszlo, on the other hand was delighted to receive support from such an unexpected and exalted source. He decided to go on playing in spite of his previous intention to quit the game. He still had two five hundred-crown chips left from the five thousand float for which he had signed. With these he could call a bank from time to time and if only one turned up then he could repay the Steward at once and he would be no worse off. And if he lost he could always take the five thousand he owed from the seven thousand he had put aside when he had paid his debts at the time he came of age. It would be a blow but one that he could take without undue strain.
Zeno lost the next coup and if Laszlo had quit then he would have won back all that he previously lost. This flashed through his mind, though not a sign could be told from his expression. He continued playing, his face as impassive as if he played every night of his life. The iron self-control that he had learned so painfully now stood him in good stead; not a twitch of an eyelid indicated either joy at winning or pain at losses he could not afford. He spoke calmly, casually, deliberately, and with a practised air.
After a while he got the bank, though this was just the moment when luck seemed to pass to the ponte.
‘Contrepasse!’ said someone just as unnecessarily as before. Laszlo’s bank now won three times running and if he had stopped his total losses would only have been some five hundred crowns. He could easily have got up at this point, for the servants were already announcing that the carriages were at the door and no one would think any the worse of a player who quitted the table at that moment, even if he were on a winning streak. However Laszlo did nothing of the sort. He pushed two thousand-crown chips onto the table and immediately lost them. This left him with two thousand five hundred crowns. He went on. He placed bets, won, lost, won again and suddenly he was in luck to the point that he was twenty-five thousand crowns up. A few moments later he had lost it all. Still he did not stop, but sat where he was, playing, sometimes high, sometimes low. It was relaxing, agreeable, entertaining if not particularly exciting. The chips seemed to represent only numbers, not values. It was a game, nothing more. One pushed forward some brightly coloured chips and sometimes they stayed where they were and sometimes a great many were pushed back in front of one. Someone dealt. One lost, one won. The chips were moved to where they belonged, that was all. Another deal, another win, another loss. Why stop? If one was in luck the chips piled up in front of one; if out of luck one signed another chit. Everyone was equal, only luck decided the game. Rank was nothing, riches were meaningless. One won, one lost. The only thing that mattered was style. It was like a play in the theatre. Everyone’s part was already written for him and one only had to do what the author had decided. How agreeable it was! And almost for the first time in his life Laszlo felt that he was accepted by the others as an equal … without reservations.
When Laszlo finally got up from the table — and he only did so because it was five o’clock in the morning and everyone wanted to go home — he was fifteen hundred crowns down on the evening. He had lost all his winnings with the same lack of interest with which he had acquired them. He was happy and at ease, so much so that he would have sat on indefinitely, pushing out chips and raking them in. The idea that those little coloured discs represented more money than he could ever possible afford, seemed so unreal that it did not even occur to him. Correcting his IOU from five thousand crowns to fifteen hundred he left the room and walked slowly down the stairs.
Outside the Casino the rain had stopped and a light frost covered the pavement with minute crystal needles that glimmered softly under his feet. Laszlo made his way home with a light step. He was filled with an unusual sense of freshness and, though the air was cold he took off his hat and walked bareheaded. The fumes of alcohol which had so befuddled him in the supper-room had evaporated long before and it was with a clear head and a newfound sense of freedom that he strolled homewards along the dark streets where occasional lamps and the faint glow of dawn in the sky barely outlined the surrounding buildings.