Towards the end of the month of October 1829 a young man entered the Palais-Royal justas the gaming-houses opened, agreeably to the law which protects a passion by its verynature easily excisable. He mounted the staircase of one of the gambling hells distinguishedby the number 36, without too much deliberation."Your hat, sir, if you please?" a thin, querulous voice called out. A little old man, crouchingin the darkness behind a railing, suddenly rose and exhibited his features, carved after amean design.As you enter a gaming-house the law despoils you of your hat at the outset. Is it by way of aparable, a divine revelation? Or by exacting some pledge or other, is not an infernalcompact implied? Is it done to compel you to preserve a respectful demeanor towardsthose who are about to gain money of you? Or must the detective, who squats in our socialsewers, know the name of your hatter, or your own, if you happen to have written it on thelining inside? Or, after all, is the measurement of your skull required for the compilation ofstatistics as to the cerebral capacity of gamblers? The executive is absolutely silent on thispoint. But be sure of this, that though you have scarcely taken a step towards the tables, your hat no more belongs to you now than you belong to yourself. Play possesses you, yourfortune, your cap, your cane, your cloak
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