CHAPTER IV

After glancing with satisfaction at the imposing aspect of Villa Sirena,

the adjoining buildings, and the surrounding groves, the Colonel said to

Novoa:

"The part you see cost less than what you don't see. There is a great

deal of money spent under ground here."

Turning away from the residence, Don Marcos pointed to the gardens,

which lay extended before them in terraces, some on a level with the

roof of the "villa," others descending like a mighty stairway almost to

the water's edge.

He recalled the promontory as it was when the late Princess first

thought of buying it; an ancient refuge of pirates; a tongue of rocks

wild and storm-swept when the _mistral_ was blowing, with deep caves

gnawed by the surge, which caused the land above to crumble, and

threatened to break it lengthwise into a chain of reefs and islets.

"The bulwarks we have had to build!" he continued. "You should have seen

the stone we had to put in here,--enough to build a wall around the

whole city!"

There were walls more than twenty yards thick, descending in a gradual

slope from the gardens to the sea. In places, it was possible to see

their foundations in the natural rocks which emerged from the water like

greenish beads always awash in the foam; in other places the masonry

went down and down until it was lost from view in the watery depths.

They were like the breakwaters one sees in harbors. They covered the

original hollows of the promontory, the caves, the inlets that were

forming, and all the jagged spaces, which had been filled with rich

soil.

These tremendous works of masonry were Toledo's pride, owing to their

cost and grandeur. He called his fellow-countryman's attention to the

proportions of the ramparts, worthy of a monarch of olden times.

"And they are not only strong," he continued, "but look, Professor! They

are all 'artistic.'"

The blocks of stone had been cut in large hexagons which fitted together

in a uniform mosaic, each piece outlined by a cement border.

At intervals there were large openings, so that the earth might rid

itself of its moisture; but each one of these blind windows held some

sort of wild vegetation, some hardy, aromatic plant, obstinately

parasitic, spreading downward over the wall and covering it with flowers

for the greater part of the year. The thick groves at the summit, and

the long balustrades arched with wine-colored clematis, seemed to exude

a flowery, green, inferior form of life, pouring it out seaward through

the gaps in the wall.

"When you see it from a boat below you will appreciate it better. Senor

Castro says it reminds him of the hanging gardens of Babylon, and of

Queen Semiramis. He is the only one who would think of such comparisons.

All I can say is that it meant doing all this! Imagine all the stone. A

whole quarry! And I wish you could have seen the bargeloads of rich soil

it took to fill the hollows, level the ground, and make a decent

garden!"

He grew enthusiastic as he talked about the modern flower gardens

stretching around the villa and along the iron railing bordering the

Menton road; and he lavished his praise on their harmonious elegance,

and the majestic regulation to which the plants were forced to conform.

That was how _he_ felt a garden should be, like many another thing in

life: perfect order, a sense of subordination, and respect for the

hierarchies, each thing in its place, with no individual rivalries to

cause confusion. But he was afraid to expound his "old-fashioned"

tastes, recalling the jests of the Prince and Castro. They preferred the

park, which the Colonel always thought of as the "wild garden."

They had availed themselves of the extremely ancient olive trees already

on the promontory as a beginning for the park. These trees could not be

called old, exactly. Such an appellation would have been petty and

inadequate to their age. They were simply ancient, of no visible age.

They had an air of changeless eternity about them which made them seem

contemporaries of the rocks and the waves themselves. They looked more

like ruins than like trees, like heaps of black wood, twisted and

overthrown by a storm, or piles of wood, warped and hollowed and

scorched by some fire long since past. With them also the invisible part

was more important than the portions exposed to the light. Their roots,

as large around as tree trunks, went out of sight, wound their way

through the red earth, and then appeared once more thirty or forty yards

beyond. Some of the trees had died on one side, only to come to life

again on the other. What had been the trunk five hundred years before,

now appeared as a mutilated stump, table shaped, severed by ax or

shattered by thunderbolt; and the root, showing above the soil, was

flowering again in its turn, changing into a tree, to continue an

apparently limitless existence, in which centuries counted as years. The

hearts of other trees were gnawed away and empty; and these supported

only half of their outer shell, looking like a tower with one side blown

out by an explosion; but on high they displayed an almost ridiculous

crown of foliage, a few handfuls of silvery leaves scattering along the

sinuous black branches. Below, the gnarled roots which seemed to have

preserved in their knotted windings the sap that was the first life of

the earth, embraced a much larger radius on the ground than that

occupied by the branches in the air. Other olive trees, that were only

three or four hundred years old, stood erect with the arrogance of

youth, leafy and exuberant, casting a light, trembling, almost

diaphanous shadow, like that of frosted glass which swayed with the

capricious will of the wind.

"His Excellency says that there are olive trees here that were seen by

the Romans. Do you believe it, Professor? Can it be that any of these

trees date back to the time of Jesus Christ?"

Novoa hesitated in replying. The Colonel continued his observations as

they walked along between walls of well-trimmed shrubbery towards the

end of the park.

"Look: there is the Greek garden."

It was an avenue of laurels and cypress trees with curving marble

benches, and in the background a semi-circular colonnade.

"I would have liked to plant a great many palms: African, Japanese, and

Brazilian, like those in the gardens of the Casino. But the Prince and

Don Atilio detest them. They say that they are an anachronism, that they

never existed in this region, and were imported by the wealthy people

who have been building for the last fifty years on the Blue Coast. All

those two fellows admire is the ancient Provencal or Italian garden:

olive trees, laurels, and cypresses--but not the huge, funereal

cypresses with bushy tops, that we use in Spain, to decorate the

_calvaries_ and cemeteries. Look at them: they are as light and slender

as feathers. To keep the wind from blowing them over you have to plant

two or three together in a clump."

They had reached the extreme limit of the park, where the leafiest olive

trees were growing. They walked along open pathways through high masses

of wild and fragrant vegetation, whose vigorous vitality seemed to

challenge the salt breeze. The plants had stiff leaves, and gave out

strong exotic perfumes. As Novoa breathed in the fragrance, it evoked

visions of far-off lands; and in truth it seemed almost as though an

odor of Hindoo cooking or Oriental incense were floating through that

wild garden. A variety of creepers hung from tree to tree. Though it was

still winter these natural garlands had already begun to bloom, owing to

the warm breezes of an early Spring. They stood out with all the gay

splendor of a courtly festival, against the chaste pale green of the

olive trees.

"Don Atilio says that all this makes him think of a Mozart symphony."

The deep blue Mediterranean lay at their feet, its slow swells combed by

a sharp reef that broke the streaming water into clouds of spray. Here

the promontory divided, forming two arms of unequal length. The shortest

was a prolongation of the park, carrying the magnificent vegetation

which flourished on its back, into the very waters. The other descended

to the sea in a chaos of rocks and loose earth, with no growth save a

few twisted pines, clinging to the soil, obstinately determined to

prolong their death struggle. The barren loneliness of this tongue of

land drew a sad smile from the Colonel each time he gazed at the

dividing wall. The rugged point was eaten away by the sea with caves

that threatened to cut it in two. It had no regular place of entrance,

being separated from the mainland by the gardens of Villa Sirena, and

shut off by a hostile wall, which represented the inalienable rights of

ownership, and was a source of constant indignation and amazement to Don

Marcos.

Doubtless that was why he turned away from it, gazing out toward where

Monaco lay beyond the rocky cliffs.

"It is lovely, Professor: one of the most delightful panoramas anywhere.

There is good reason for people to come here from the farthest ends of

the earth!"

He let his glance rest on the violet colored mountains that, at the

farthest horizon, projected out upon the sea, like the limit of a world.

They were the so-called Mountains of the Moors, which, with Esterel

Point, form a branch of the Maritime Alps, a separate mountain chain,

which juts into the Mediterranean. In the opposite direction lay a

portion of the pseudo-Blue Coast, which begins at Toulon and Hyeres. But

this part did not interest the Colonel. What he saw, more in imagination

than in reality, was a bird's-eye view of the real Blue Coast, his own

Blue Coast--that of the aristocratic and wealthy people on whom he was

in the habit of calling, in their elegant villas and expensive hotels.

The Maritime Alps form a giant wall, parallel to the sea. In some places

they fall steeply toward the Mediterranean with the sharp slope of a

bulwark, without the slightest break to mask the abrupt descent. At

other points the incline is gentler, creating waves of stone, miniature

mountains which stand out above the water, forming capes and placid

inlets. And on these sheltered shores, from Esterel to the Italian

frontier, wealthy people, sensitive to cold, arriving in pilgrimages

every winter, had finally converted the sleepy provincial villages into

world-famous capitals. Fishing hamlets were transformed into elegant

towns; the large Paris and London hotels erected enormous annexes on the

deserted bays; the most expensive shops of the Boulevards opened

branches in tiny settlements where a few years before every one had gone

barefoot.

In his mind Toledo went over the undulating line of celebrated places,

overlooking the sea from the promontories, or nestling in the little

horseshoe bays to profit more directly by the refraction of the winter

sunlight from the red walls of the Alps: Cannes, which inspired in him a

certain awe on account of its quiet distinction--the place where

consumptives and old people of renown desire to die--Antibes, with its

square harbor and its walls which, according to Castro, recalled the

romantic seascapes painted by Vernet; Nice, the capital where people

come together to spend their money, copying Parisian life; the deep bay

of Villefranche, the harborage of battleships; Cap-Ferrat and the

beautiful Point Saint-Hospice, a former den of African pirates, jutting

out from it; Beaulieu, with its Tunisian palaces, the homes of American

multimillionaires, who always keep open house, and who had often invited

the Colonel to luncheon there; Eze, the feudal hamlet, hanging grimly to

the side of the Alps, and falling in ruins around its decaying castle,

while down below, the people who fled from it are forming a new town,

beside the gulf which their predecessors proudly called the Sea of Eze;

Cap d'Ail, which serves as a sort of portico to the adjoining

Principality; the Rock of Monaco, carrying on its giant's back a walled

city; opposite it the dazzling Monte Carlo; and beyond, Cap-Martin, with

somber vegetation, reserved and lordly, the ultimate shelter of

dethroned kings; and lastly, close to Italy, pleasant Menton, the

stronghold of Englishmen, another place for invalids of distinction,

where every self-respecting consumptive feels obliged to end his days.

"Think of the money that has been spent here!" Don Marcos exclaimed.

Fifty years before, the Corniche railway in successfully finding its way

through this mountain region had been considered a marvelous piece of

work; but now for the convenience of winter visitors, the same work had

been repeated in every direction. Smoothly curving roads, clean and firm

as a drawing-room floor, extended along the seashore, ascended the

Alpine heights, passing from crest to crest on lofty viaducts, or

burrowing the hills in long tunnels. Where the perpendicular rock would

not allow a ledge to be cut the engineer had made one with buttresses

many yards high, the bases of which were lost to view in the waves.

A new dream had been added to the many which the blessed in this world's

goods may realize--the owning of a house on the Riviera! Within fifty

years, every architectural whim, every possible fancy of rich people

bent on creating sensations, had covered this shore of the Mediterranean

with villas, Greek, Arabic, Persian, Venetian, and Tuscan palaces, and

dwellings of other distinct or indescribable styles. The palm tree was

imported and acclimated as a native plant.

"Enormous fortunes have been invested here; three generations have been

ruined, and as many more enriched. When you think what it was a century

ago, and see what it is now...!"

The Colonel spoke of an Englishwoman's tomb, completely abandoned on the

extreme point of Cap-Ferrat. She was a forerunner of the present winter

visitors, a youthful contemporary of Byron, charmed by the beauty of the

Mediterranean, and by the pathless and practically unexplored mountains.

On her death, they buried her on the deserted promontory, because she

was a Protestant. The fishermen and peasants of this lonely coast

shunned the stranger, denying her the rights of hospitality even in

their cemeteries.

"This happened less than a century ago. And such poverty as there was!

The only products of the country were thick skinned oranges, lemons, and

these olives. The trees are very pretty, very decorative, but they bear

an exceedingly small pointed olive, all pit. Compare them with ours in

Andalusia, Professor! And to-day there are millionaires, born right here

on the Riviera, who have grown rich merely by selling the wretched

fields of their fathers. The red land, abounding in stones, is bought by

the yard, even in the most out of the way spots, like lots in large

cities. When you least expect it, at a turn in the road, you come across

a miserable hut with a little land around it that takes your fancy. The

roof of the building sags, and the wind blows through the cracks in the

wall. The owners sleep with the pig, the chickens, and the horse. This

same poverty and shiftlessness you find among the peasants almost

everywhere. You happen to think that you might build up a country home

there without much expense. Surely the good people won't ask very much,

no matter how inflated their ideas of value may be! But when you ask the

price, after much talk, and many doubts, they finally say in the most

casual manner: 'A hundred and fifty thousand francs, or two hundred

thousand.' When you protest in amazement they reply, pointing to the

mountains, the sun, and the sea: 'And the view, monsieur.'"

The red soil of the Alps amounts to little for its power of production:

it is the situation that gives it its value. And the native has grown

rich selling, so much per yard, the sunlight, the azure of the

Mediterranean, the orange color of the mountains and the dazzling glory

of the clouds at sunset, the shelter of the distant rock which, like a

screen, turns aside the icy breeze of the _mistral_.

"If you only knew how inexplicably obstinate some of these people are!"

As Don Marcos spoke he turned and pointed out to Novoa the miserable

strip of land that seemed fastened like a curse to the gardens of Villa

Sirena. The Princess Lubimoff with all her millions, had not been able

to buy the tip of that promontory. It belonged to an old married couple

without any children. "That is their house," he added, pointing to a

sort of yellowish cube, halfway up the mountain, beside a road that cut

across the red and black slope.

The Princess, after acquiring the promontory for her medieval castle,

had considered the acquisition of the small extremity a mere trifle.

"Give them what they ask," she said to her business agent. And in spite

of her recklessness with money, she was amazed to learn that they

refused two hundred thousand francs for a few rocks undermined by the

waves, and a couple of dozen dying pines.

"I was present at the interviews with the old people. The agent of the

Princess offered five hundred thousand, six hundred thousand, and the

couple did not seem to grasp the meaning of the figures. The Princess

lost her patience, lamenting the fact that they were not in Russia, in

the good old days. She even talked of engaging an assassin in Italy--as

she had read in certain novels--to get rid of the stubborn old pair. It

was just like her Excellency,--but she was really very kind at heart!

Finally, one day, she shouted to us: 'Offer them a million, and let us

be done with it!' Imagine, Professor, more than two thousand francs a

yard; you could buy land at that rate in the business district of a big

city! We went up to their cottage. They didn't bat an eyelash when they

heard the figure. The old woman, who was the more intelligent of the

two, let Her Excellency's lawyer explain what a million meant. She

looked at her husband for a long time, in spite of the fact that she was

the only one of the two who was doing any thinking, and finally

accepted; but on condition that the Princess should erect, on the

outermost point, a chapel to the Virgin. It was a wish that her simple

imagination had cherished all her life. Without the chapel, she would

not accept the million. 'Don't worry, we'll build the chapel!' we said.

The day set for signing the papers, we found the two old people, sitting

in the lawyer's office side by side, with bowed heads. The lawyer

received us, wringing his hands, and looking toward heaven with an

expression of despair. They would not accept! It was no use insisting.

They wanted to keep things just as they had received them from their

forefathers. 'What would we do with a million?' groaned the old woman.

'We would lead a terrible life!' We tried to talk to her about the

chapel, in order to persuade her; but they both fled, like people

finding themselves in bad company, and afraid of being tempted."

The colonel looked once more at the dividing wall.

"Her Excellency being a born fighter, immediately had the partition

raised before beginning the foundation of the castle. As you see from

here, the old people can reach their property only by the beach; and on

stormy days they have to enter the water up to their knees. That doesn't

matter; from that time on they became more attached than ever to their

land. They used to come down from the mountains every Sunday, to sit at

the foot of the wall. By constantly measuring the point they succeeded

in discovering an error made by the architect, who had been a trifle

flustered owing to the haste enforced upon him by the Princess. He had

made a mistake of eighteen inches, and half the width of the wall was on

the old people's land. The peasant woman, in spite of the fact that she

had a sort of superstitious fear of the majesty of the law, threatened

to bring suit even though she might be forced to sell her hut and field

on the mountain to fight the case. It was necessary to tear down the

wall, and build it up again, half a yard farther this way. It meant some

sixty thousand francs lost--nothing for the Princess--and yet I suspect

at times, that the affair may have hastened her death."

Don Marcos felt that he must pause a moment out of respect for the

deceased.

"The old woman has died too," he continued, "and her husband comes here

only from time to time. When he finds that one of his pine trees has

fallen, through the wearing away of the soil, he sits down close beside

it, just as though he were watching beside a corpse. At other times he

spends hours looking at the sea and the huge rocks, as though

calculating how long it would take the waves to break his property to

pieces. One afternoon, going on foot from La Turbie to Roquebrune, I ran

across him near his hut, where he was pasturing some sheep. With his

long beard he looked like a patriarch; and he is always the same,

leaning on his staff, with a dirty tam-o'shanter on his head, and a

rough cape about his shoulders. Besides, he always has a pipe in his

mouth, though he rarely smokes. 'The million is waiting,' I said in fun,

'whenever you want to come and get it.' He didn't seem to understand me.

He smiled with a look of vague recognition, but perhaps he thought I was

some one else. His gaze was fixed on Monte Carlo, a bird's-eye view of

which lay at our feet. He must spend hours and weeks like that. His face

looks as though it were carved of wood, or molded in terra cotta; he

seldom speaks, and no one can guess the substance of his reflections.

But I think that every day the same identical amazement must be renewed,

and that he will die without ever recovering from his surprise. He sees

the expanse of waters, which is always the same, the eternal hills, that

never change, the house built by his ancestors, which was old when he

was born, the olive groves, the mighty rocks ... but that city has

sprung up, since he was a grown man, from a plateau covered with

thickets, and burrowed with caves, and it is enlarged each year with new

hotels, new streets, and more domes and turrets!"

The Colonel suddenly forgot the old peasant. With his fellow-countryman,

Novoa, he felt quite talkative, and he imagined that his thoughts flowed

more freely and vigorously, through this contact with a man of learning.

Besides, he felt a certain pride in being able to talk like an old

inhabitant, of the many things of which the new-comer was ignorant.

"The fortress you see over there practically belonged to us at one

time," he went on, pointing to the Castle of Monaco. "For a century and

a half it had a Spanish garrison. Our great Charles V"--and the old

Legitimist spoke the name with a note of deep respect--"once slept

there. And there, too."

Turning, he pointed out on the mountain summit of Cap-Martin the village

of Roquebrune, huddled about its ruined castle.

"The archivist of the Prince of Monaco is studying the numerous letters

in his possession written by our great Emperor to the Grimaldi family.

When the historians of the Principality wish to establish the

indisputable independence of their tiny land, they cite as the origins

of the state the treaties signed at Burgos, Tordesillas, and Madrid."

In a few words he went over the history of the little country, which

came into being around a little harbor. Semitic sailors gave it the name

of Melkar--the Phoenician Hercules--and the word gradually changed

into the present one, Monaco. The Guelphs and Ghibellines of Genoa

fought for possession of its castle, until a Grimaldi, disguised as a

monk, entered the enclosure by surprise and opened the gates to his

friends, making the ancient Hercules Harbor an estate of his family for

all time. "This friar, sword in hand," continued Don Marcos, "is the

one that figures on both sides of the coat of arms of Monaco. From that

time on the history of the Grimaldis is similar to that of all the

ruling houses of those days. They made war on their neighbors, and

quarreled among themselves, to the extent that brother even assassinated

brother. The sailors of Monaco plied the trade of corsair, and their

flag was even used to give distinction to the pirates of other

countries. The alliance of the Grimaldis with Spain allowed them to use

the title of Prince for the first time. Charles V addressed them in his

letters as 'dear Cousins,' and gave them other honorary titles. This

great rock was of exceeding importance to the Spanish Monarchs who had

lands in Italy and needed to keep the route safe. The Kings of France

were very anxious, on their part, to do away with this obstacle and win

the Grimaldis over to their side. You must realize that for a hundred

and fifty years the latter kept their agreements faithfully, and that

during all this time the subsidies that had been promised them from

Madrid were sent only at rare intervals. Two galleys from Monaco always

figured in the rolls of the Spanish navy. Only when the decline of

Austria began to cause us to lose our influence in Europe, did the

Grimaldis, like people fleeing from a house that is tumbling down,

abandon us. At that particular moment, Richelieu was making France a

great power, and they went with him. One night amid thunder and

lightning, when the garrison, composed for the most part of Italians in

the service of Spain, were carelessly asleep, the French caught them

unawares, disarmed them, after killing a few who tried to resist, and

finally sent the remainder courteously to the Spanish Viceroy at Milan,

with the notice that the alliance must be considered broken forever.

"The Grimaldis became the liege-lords of France. Later they went to

Versailles, as courtiers, or served in the King's armies. During the

Revolution they were persecuted, like all the other princes, and a

beautiful lady of the family was guillotined. Napoleon kept them in his

military following as aides-de-camp, and the long peace of the

Nineteenth Century caused them to return and take up their abode once

more in their tiny Principality.

"They were so poor!" Toledo went on. "They were obliged to keep up the

show and pomp of a court, since in a small state where all are

neighbors, the Prince has to exaggerate formality, in order to hold the

people's respect. The same expenses must be defrayed as in a large

nation; the maintenance of courts, administrative offices, and even a

diminutive army for internal safety. And the whole Principality produced

nothing but lemons and olives.... You can see for yourself how poor and

how hard pressed they must have been, not knowing how to raise funds,

especially since under the rule of Florestan I, the grandfather of the

present Prince, there was an attempted revolution, owing to the decree

of the Sovereign that the olives of the country should be pressed

exclusively in the mills of his estate.

"Later under Charles III, the situation became still more difficult. The

Principality was dismembered. The two cities, Menton and Roquebrune,

dependencies of Monaco, full of enthusiasm for the Italian Revolution,

declared their freedom, and joined the Kingdom of Savoy. Shortly after,

when Napoleon III acquired the former County of Nice they fell under the

control of France. And thus Monaco was isolated within French territory,

with its sovereignty clearly recognized; but a sovereignty that embraced

only a single city on a rocky height, a small harbor, and a little

surrounding land overgrown with parasitical vegetation; about as much

ground as a peaceful citizen might cover in a morning walk. How was the

tiny State to be maintained?

"It was saved by gambling. Don't imagine as some people do, that the

idea originated with the Ruler of Monaco. Many German Princes had had

recourse to some enterprise to support their domains. It is a German

invention; but gambling on the shore of the Mediterranean, under a

winter sun that seldom fails, is quite a different thing from gambling

in Central Europe. At first the business was unsuccessful. They

established a miserable Casino in old Monaco, opposite the Palace, in

what is now the barracks of the Prince's Guard. The betting was very

slight. It was necessary to come by diligence, over the Alpine heights,

following the old Roman route, and to descend from La Turbie by roads

that were like ravines. One had to be very anxious indeed to gamble.

Later the Casino was transferred to the harbor below, where the La

Condamine district is to-day: another failure. The lessees of the gaming

privileges went bankrupt, and were unable to fulfill their obligations

to the Prince. And then the Corniche Railway was put through, placing

Monaco on the road between Paris and Italy; and all the gamblers and

idlers of the world came flocking here within a few years. What a

transformation!"

The Colonel recalled once more the old peasant, who, pasturing his sheep

on the Alpine slope, spent hours and hours with his eyes fixed on the

marvelous city, stretching out below, on the very spot that, as a young

man, he had seen covered with thickets.

"That was the beginning of Monte Carlo. Opposite the rock of Monaco,

forming the other side of the harbor, there was an abandoned plateau,

only some sixty years ago. Scattered about the gardens of the Square,

among the tropical trees, there are still a few scraggly olive trees

left from those times. They have been spared as relics of the days of

poverty. Where we now find the Casino, the large hotels, and the most

elegant tea-houses, there were caves dating back to prehistoric times,

which in less remote periods served as haunts for thieves. On account of

the grottoes this wild plateau was nicknamed _The Caverns_. Some of the

things you have seen in the Anthropological Museum in Monaco, stone

axes, human bones, etc., came from those caves. And the abandoned

plateau, in some ten or twelve years, was converted into Monte Carlo,

the great city of world fame, leaving on the heights opposite in

obscurity and more or less in oblivion, the historic Monaco, which at

present is merely one of its suburbs. Monte Carlo has grown so that it

extends from one end of the Principality to the other; the entire

national territory is covered with houses, and each year it over-flows

still farther beyond the boundary line. The French part is called

Beausoleil. You have only to cross the Square in front of the Casino,

ascend the sloping gardens, and mount a stairway to the Boulevard du

Nord, to find one of the rarest sights in Europe. One sidewalk belongs

to the Prince of Monaco, and the other across the street, to the French

Republic. The shopkeepers pay different taxes and obey different laws,

according to whether their show windows are on the left or on the

right."

Toledo remained thoughtful for a moment.

"The miracles accomplished by roulette!" he continued. "The magic power

of 'red and black'! They say the Casino is a marvel of poor taste, but

the walls and ceilings fairly drip with gold, as in a rich church. The

theater there is the first to produce many operas that become famous

throughout the world. The countless hotels are like palaces. Monte Carlo

bristles with domes and turrets like an oriental city. The streets with

their scrupulously clean pavements, seem like drawing-rooms. There

isn't a trace of dirt. And think of the gardens! The Alps, here, form a

wonderful screen; we live in a sunny shelter; almost a hothouse. But at

times the _mistral_ blows, and it is cold. I don't know how it is

possible for all those tropical plants that are so fresh and luxuriant,

and all those trees that originate in a climate as hot as an oven, to

live here. The poor old olives must be as amazed as I myself at finding

themselves in such company. 'Trente et Quarante' must be a powerful

fertilizer! I'm sure that if the gambling were to stop, all this

tropical vegetation would vanish like a dream."

The silent Professor greeted these words with a smile.

"And what a transformation in the people!" the Colonel continued.

"Notice the crowd some Sunday; none of them like workmen, all equally

well dressed! The girls here copy what they see worn by the elegant

society women; and imagine how many of the latter come here! You never

see a beggar, nor a man in rags. To be born here means something: one's

livelihood is assured. The Casino takes care of every one; there is

always a place for every citizen in the gambling rooms, in the gardens,

or in the theater; and if not, on the police force, in the

administrative offices, or in the Prince's household--and the latter is

paid for with the Company's money too. To achieve the dignity of being

put in charge of a gaming table is the native's highest ambition. He may

earn as much as a thousand francs a month, not counting the tips. That

is more perhaps than you will ever earn, Professor. And he ends his days

in a little villa he has built on the heights of Beausoleil, where he

can look after his garden, with a view below of the Casino--the house of

the Good Fairy that dispenses all blessings. They all have enough to

live on as long as they know how to keep a silent tongue, and mind their

own business. An old cab driver, whom I sometimes engage, was bold

enough one evening to talk quite frankly with me, owing to the fact

that he was slightly intoxicated. His wife has been for some twenty

years now in the Ladies' Section of the Casino toilets; his daughters

work as cleaners; his sons are employed in the theater. They all bring

in money. Moreover, the old men retire on pay, the sick are not

forgotten, and the widows and orphans of every employee that dies during

service are paid pensions. 'It's a great country, sir,' the driver said

to me, 'the best in the world. Every one can make a living, as long as

he's wise enough to keep his mouth shut, and not make trouble.' And you

can depend upon it, they are all discreet. Moreover they watch one

another, and are afraid of being denounced by their best friend, if they

talk about the latest scandal, or a gambler's suicide. Among strangers

not one of them lets on that he knows anything."

"And supposing one of them were to talk?" asked Novoa. "Or if one of

them were to make trouble?"

"They would banish him. It is a paternal despotism, and does not dare

inflict harsher punishments. The police of the Prince make him go half

way across the street, and put him on the French sidewalk.... Don't

laugh; it is a cruel penalty. Exiles to other places finally grow

accustomed to their misfortune, since they live at a great distance, and

see their native land only in their mind's eye. But a man who is exiled

here can almost reach out and touch his country with his hand; he has

only to cross the width of the street. As the land slopes downward, he

can see his house a few roofs beyond. He sees the smoke from breakfast

coming out of the chimney, and yet he cannot sit down to his own table;

the family is at the windows, and he has to talk to them by signs.

Moreover, and worst of all, he sees that the rest who were prudent go on

leading their pleasant lives in the shadow of the Casino, while he has

to seek a new profession at much harder work. His torment becomes

unbearable, and he finally flees to some distant city, to let a few

years go by, so he may be pardoned."

Don Marcos began to praise Monte Carlo again; "People who lose their

money in the Casino always retain an unpleasant memory of it; but where

can one find a quieter, cleaner, or more peaceful city, with its

Spring-like climate in mid-winter?

"Everybody comes here sooner or later; lots of rogues, of course; but

you find famous people too, and you can enjoy society of distinction. I

scarcely ever gamble, and for that reason I appreciate the beauty of the

scenery. And more than that: at times I have the satisfaction one feels

in getting things for nothing; and when I gaze at the lovely walks, when

I attend the concerts and operas, and enjoy the sweet tranquillity of a

city in which there are no poor, and no desperate revolutionists, I say

to myself: 'The gamblers pay for this, and you get the benefit of it.

They lose so that you may enjoy life.'"

As Novoa smiled again, the Colonel expressed his admiration still more

glowingly.

"It seems impossible that roulette should have performed so many

miracles! And there must be others besides those which lie before our

eyes. Gambling has paid the cost of this delightful harbor of La

Condamine: a harbor for yachts, with elegant docks that are really

promenades. It must have had a hand also in the restoration of the

castle of the Prince. It even helps to develop the spiritual life of the

place, and increase the prestige of religion. Before roulette came none

of the clergy were of higher rank than priests. Since the triumph of the

Casino there has been a Bishop, and canons; and a beautiful Byzantine

cathedral has been erected, which, according to Castro, needs only to

have Time darken it a bit. The Sunday masses are one of the chief

attractions of the Principality. The Nice papers print the program of

the music that will be sung by the choir, alongside the program of the

concert at the Casino: '_Canto piano_ of the most celebrated masters,

the Italian Palestrina, or the Spanish Vitoria.'"

Novoa interrupted him.

"There is the Museum of Oceanography too. That alone is enough to remove

any taint from the money which has come from the Casino."

He said this with the pleasing voice and the somewhat distracted

expression that were natural to him; but in his words there was the

mystic ardor of the firm believer.

The Colonel nodded assent. The Museum which roused the Professor's

enthusiasm was the work of the Prince, and as for himself, Don Marcos

felt a deep respect for "Albert," as he called the sovereign familiarly.

"Albert" had been an officer in the Spanish navy. As a lieutenant

commander he had sailed the coast of Cuba; in his books he had praised

the old Spanish sailors, his first masters in the art of navigation.

What more was needed to inspire veneration in Don Marcos?

"Whenever he attends a ceremony in his Principality he wears the uniform

of a Spanish admiral. And he is a man of science: you know that better

than I do."

He gave Novoa a chance to speak. Three-fourths of the earth were covered

with water, and for centuries and centuries humanity took no interest in

investigating the mysterious hidden life of the ocean depths.

Navigators, skimming the surface, went their way, guided by routine

methods or by fragmentary experience, without succeeding in embracing

the fixed and regular laws of the atmospheric or ocean currents.

Science, which has to its credit so many discoveries in a single century

of existence, halted in dismay at the edge of the sea. The scientists

in the laboratories only need material for their work, and that is

easily obtained; but to study the seas, to live on them for years and

years, is another matter. For that, it was necessary to have ships and

men at one's disposal, to construct new and costly apparatus, to spend

millions, to cruise patiently and leisurely here and there over the

ocean wastes, with no fixed goal, waiting for the great blue depths

casually to reveal their secrets. That meant a great outlay, with slight

returns. Only a sovereign, a king, could do that; and that was what the

former officer in the Spanish navy, on becoming a Prince, had done.

"Thanks to him," Novoa proceeded, "oceanography, which scarcely amounted

to anything, has become to-day an important study. His yachts have been

floating laboratories, cruisers of science, which have gradually made

the first conquests of the deep. With his drifting buoys he has been

able to demonstrate in a conclusive manner the circular drift of the

Atlantic currents; with his careful soundings he has brought to light

the mysteries of deep sea life at various levels of the great body of

water. Scientists have been enabled to sail the sea and study, with no

material restrictions, thanks to him. Through his generosity handsome

books have been published, museums have been opened, and excavations

have been made in the earth which throw enlightenment on the origin of

man."

"And all this," the Colonel interrupted, persisting in the admiration

already expressed, "with the money from the Casino! Gambling has

defrayed the expenses of the cruisers of science, the coal and men for

far-off expeditions, the printing of books and journals, the subsidies

for young men anxious to perfect their scientific training; the

Institute of Oceanography in Paris; the Museum of Oceanography in

Monaco, where you are working; the Museum of Anthropology and.... And

you have to figure that all this is merely a tip left by the

stockholders of the gambling corporation. Just imagine what the Casino

produces! And lots of people consider it terrible!"

"It doesn't make any difference where wealth comes from as long as it is

put to useful purposes," said the Professor, with a note of hardness in

his voice. "No one asks a government the origin of its funds, when they

are used for some good purpose. Often they have been extorted with more

cruelty and violence than those which come from here, where the people

all flock of their own free will. It is a good thing that the money of

scheming, foolish people, and of those who feel their lives are empty

and don't know how to fill them, should be used for once to accomplish

something great and human. Think what this Prince of a tiny State has

done for science in the course of a few years. If only the great

Emperors would devote the enormous forces at their command to similar

enterprises! If only Kaiser Wilhelm had done the same, instead of

preparing for war all his life, how humanity might have progressed!"

The Colonel, considering himself a warrior by profession, only half

admitted the truth of the Professor's words. The sword, the glory won on

the battle-field, were something after all, and the world would be ugly

without them, it seemed to him. But he remained silent, not venturing to

spoil his friend's enthusiasm.

"All the sins on the one hand are redeemed on the other." Saying this,

Novoa pointed to the huge Casino, with its multi-colored domes and

towers, rising from the table-land of Monte Carlo. Then tracing with his

finger an imaginary arc above the harbor, he paused when it pointed to

the eminence on the left, where, on the cliffs of Monaco, a large square

edifice rose, the walls of which descended to the water's edge. It was

the Museum of Oceanography, a fine new building in stone that, in that

atmosphere so seldom streaked with rain, still retained its waxy

whiteness.

Don Marcos smiled at the contrast. "Don Atilio says the same thing.

Every time he gazes at the view from here, he looks at the two buildings

separated by the mouth of the harbor, and occupying the two

promontories. He says the one justifies the other, and adds: 'They are

...' What is it he says?--an antithesis. No; it's something else."

The metallic booming of a gong drifted through the trees from Villa

Sirena, summoning the guests, who were scattered through the park, or

had not appeared as yet from their rooms. The Colonel listened with

pleasure: "Luncheon!"

He gave a last look at the two enormous buildings, one of them bristling

with sharp and many colored pinnacles, the other plain and square, of

uniform whiteness. Between the promontories, at the water's surface, two

new breakwaters meet, closing the mouth of the harbor. At the outermost

extremity of each is a beacon: one red, the other green.

The Colonel tapped his brow and looked at his compatriot with a smile.

"Oh, yes, I remember. He says the Casino and the Museum are a symbol."

The little group which Castro had labelled "Enemies of Women" had now

been in existence two weeks with no disharmony and no obstacles to the

perfect happiness of the members. Complete freedom was theirs! Villa

Sirena belonged to them all, and the real owner seemed merely like an

additional guest.

Arising late in the morning, Castro saw the Prince in a corner of the

garden with his shirt open at the neck and his bare arms wielding a

spade. The thing that made the new life complete for him was the

cultivating of a little garden, and having the gratification of eating

vegetables and smelling flowers that were the product of his own toil.

This man who had always been surrounded by a corps of servants to attend

to all his wants, was anxious now to be self-dependent, and feel the

proud satisfaction of one who relies entirely on his own hands. Vainly

he invited Castro to join him in this healthy, profitable exercise,

which was at the same time a return to primitive simplicity.

"Thanks; I don't care for Tolstoi. As far as the simple life goes this

is all I want." And he stretched out on the moss, under a tree, while

the Prince went on digging his garden. They talked for a while of their

companions. Novoa was in the library, or wandering about the park. Some

mornings he would take the early train for Monaco to continue his

studies at the Museum. As for Spadoni, he never arose before noon, and

often the Colonel would have to pound on his door so that he would not

be late for lunch.

"He never gets to sleep until dawn," said Castro. "He spends the night

studying his notes on the way the gambling has been going. He gets into

my room sometimes when I'm asleep, to tell me one of his everlasting

systems that he has just discovered; and I have to threaten him with a

slipper. In his room, among the music albums, he keeps piles of green

sheets that give each day's plays for a year at all the various tables

in the Casino. He's crazy."

But Castro took care not to add that he often asked Spadoni to lend him

his "archives" in order to verify his own calculations; and in spite of

his making fun of the latter's discoveries, he used to risk a little

money on them, through a gambler's superstition that attaches great

value to the intuitions of the simple-minded.

After luncheon, Castro and Spadoni would both hurry off to the Casino.

The Prince, when not attending a concert, remained with Novoa and the

Colonel in a _loggia_ on the upper story, looking out over the sea. The

war had filled that part of the Mediterranean with shipping. In normal

times the sea presented a deserted monotonous appearance, with nothing

to arrest the eye save the wheeling of the gulls, the foamy leaps of the

dolphins and the sail of an occasional fishing boat. The steamers and

the large sailing vessels were scarcely ever to be seen even as tiny

shadows on the horizon, following their course direct from Marseilles to

Genoa, without following the extensive shore line of the Riviera gulf.

But now the submarine menace had obliged the merchant ships to slip

along within shelter of the coast. Convoys passed nearly every day;

freighters of various nationalities, daubed like zebras to reduce their

visibility, and escorted by French and Italian torpedo-boats.

These rosaries of boats so close to the coast that one could read their

names and distinguish their captains standing on the bridge, caused the

Prince and the Professor to talk of the horrors of war.

At times the Colonel entered the conversation, but only to lament the

difficulties which such a war presented to the fulfillment of his duties

as steward. Each day his task was becoming more difficult. He was no

longer able to find anything worth serving at a table like that of the

Prince, and even so, the prices that he paid roused his indignation when

he compared them with those of peace times! And the servants! He had

sent to Spain for some, now that all those from the district were in the

army; but the hotel proprietors had immediately enticed them away. They

all preferred to serve in cafes or in places where people are

continually coming and going, tempted by the chance of getting tips and

of associating with the white-aproned chamber-maids.

He had improvised dining-room service with the two Italian boys from the

Brodhigera, whose families were living in Monaco. The older and livelier

of the two had the name of Pistola, and treated his companion in

despotic fashion, bullying him with kicks and cuffs when the Colonel's

back was turned. Atilio, for the sake of the rhyme, had nicknamed

Pistola's comrade, Estola, and every one in the house accepted the name,

even the boy himself.

"When you think of the work it cost me to make decent respectable

looking servants out of them!" groaned Toledo. "And now it seems that

they are going to be called back to Italy as soldiers. More men off for

the war! Even these young lads that haven't reached the age yet! What

shall we do when Estola and Pistola go?"

Many evenings, at the dinner hour, the rules of the community were

rudely broken. The first to desert was Spadoni. He arrived sometimes

after midnight, saying that he had dined with some friends. At other

times he did not return at all. After a few days had gone by he would

quietly appear, with the serene ingenuousness of a stray dog, just as

though he had gone out only a few hours before. No one could ever find

out exactly where he had been. He himself was not sure. "I met some

friends." And in the same half hour, these friends would be at one

moment some Englishmen from Nice, or at another a family from

Cap-Martin, as though he had been in both places at the same time.

Atilio also used to absent himself. A gambling companion had shown him,

in the Casino, the little cards divided into columns, which are used to

note the alternating frequency of "red" and "black." Various ladies had

taken similar documents from their hand-bags, where they lay among the

handkerchiefs, the powder boxes, the lip sticks, the banknotes, and the

various colored chips, which are used as money in the gaming. The

indications all agreed. During the morning and afternoon the "bets" were

all lost, and the house was winning; but from eight o'clock in the

evening on, undreamed-of fortune smiled on the players. The statistics

could not be clearer; there was no possible doubt. And Castro would

renounce the excellent food of Villa Sirena, satisfied with a glass of

beer and a sandwich at the bar. Then at midnight he would return in a

hired carriage, paying the astonished driver with prodigality. At other

times he would stand in front of the gate fishing in his pockets to get

together enough to pay for the cab. Fate had lied. Nor, on those

occasions, would any of the prophets of the little cards have been able

to lend him a cent.

Toledo muttered protests. This lack of orderly habits made him lament

once more the scarcity of servants. The help always got up late on

account of having to sit up and wait at night. For that reason, on the

nights when all the companions of the Prince were present, the Colonel

felt the satisfaction of the Governor of a fortress when he sees all the

posterns locked and feels the keys in his pocket. After dinner they

would listen to Spadoni. Seated at a grand piano, he would play

according to his mood or according to the wishes of the Prince. Lubimoff

was a melomaniac whose musical taste was cloyed, perverted, by an

excessive refinement. He cared only for rare works, and obscure

composers.

Castro, who was himself a pianist, at times was unable to hide his

enthusiasm for the wonderful execution of the Italian virtuoso.

"And just think that after all he is an idiot!" he exclaimed, with the

frankness of a man who is carried away by his feelings. "All his

faculties are warped, and narrowed, concentrated on a single purpose,

music, without leaving anything for anything else. However, what's the

difference? He's an idiot--but a sublime idiot."

* * * * *

There were nights when Spadoni remained with his elbow on the keyboard

and his brow resting in his right hand, as though completely absorbed in

music. As a matter of fact, the visions that were then whirling in his

head, beneath those long locks, were red and black squares, many cards,

and thirty-six numbers in three rows beginning with a zero. The Prince,

annoyed by the silence, turned to Castro.

"Tell us something about your grandfather, Don Enrique."

This grandfather had married an aunt of General Saldana, and although

Atilio had never known him personally he often talked about him, as a

curious sort of person who aroused either his admiration or his bitter

irony, according to the mood he happened to be in. This ancestor was a

man of warlike temperament and rather perverse enthusiasms, who had

succeeded in depleting the family fortune, already undermined by his

predecessors. Related to a great many nobles, he usually would deny the

relationship if forced to the point, as though it were something of

which to be ashamed. Other members of the family might take the title of

nobility if they chose. The motto which had figured for centuries on the

Castro shield was an accurate summary of the man's character: "To-morrow

more revolutionary than to-day." For thirty years there had not been a

successful or abortive insurrection in Spain in which this

somber-looking gentleman had not had a hand. He was very sensitive to

insult and a great swordsman. He treated men like a despot and at the

same time he was ready to die for the liberty of mankind.

"A red Don Quixote!" said Castro.

He remembered having played with the old man's sword, as a child. It was

a Toledo weapon, inlaid with golden arabesques copied from the old sword

of the explorer and _conquistador_, Alvaro de Castro, who had been

Governor of the Indies. But toward the hilt of the blade, where his

ancestors had been wont to inscribe an expression of fidelity to their

God and King, Don Enrique had had engraved: "Long live the Republic!"

Without this knightly sword, he refused to take part in a revolution. He

had carried it from Sicily to Naples, following Garibaldi to dethrone

the Bourbons. "To-morrow more revolutionary than to-day!" His companions

soon appeared to him unspeakable reactionaries, and this caused him to

seek new doctrines which would fully satisfy his insatiable eagerness

for destruction and innovation. Finally, this descendant of Governors

and Viceroys wound up in the "First International." And the most

extraordinary thing of all was that in his new life he never lost the

traces of his early education, his arrogance and his knightly ways,

which caused him to consider the slightest difference of opinion as "an

affair of honor."

Over a discussion in a committee meeting, he had fought a "comrade"

laborer in Paris. No sooner had they crossed swords than the workman

received a cut across the head.

"It is quite just," said the wounded man, wiping away the blood. "The

Marquis, who has been able to learn the use of weapons, ought of course

to beat a mere man of the people."

Don Enrique turned pale at the irony, and to restore equality, and

eliminate his traditional advantages, he raised his sword and gave

himself a terrible cut across the skull, while the witnesses ran forward

to seize him and prevent him from doing it again.

After accompanying Garibaldi once more, in the War of 1870, fighting the

Prussians at Dijon, he was drawn to Paris by the revolutionary movement

of the Commune.

"I think they made him a general," Atilio said. "He must have suffered

heavily in that tragic farce. It is certain that he was executed by the

government troops, and no one knows where he is buried."

Atilio's admiration for his grandfather, whose life had been so

romantic, was dampened by the thought of his mother. Poor, an orphan,

and forgotten by her relatives, she had been obliged to marry a man old

enough to be her father, and led the wandering life, outside of Spain,

that is forced upon the wives of consuls. Atilio was born in Leghorn,

and was given the name of his godfather, an old Italian gentleman, who

was a friend of the Spanish Consul. The memory of his grandfather,

saddened from time to time the life of his poor, resigned, and devout

mother. In Rome, visiting Spaniards, all persons of conventional ideas

who came to see the Pope, would look askance on learning of her birth:

"Oh, so you are the daughter of Enrique de Castro!" And she would seem

to shrink, and beg their pardon with her sad, humble eyes.

"I don't disown my grandfather," Castro added. "I would like to have

known him. The only thing I blame him for is that he left us so poor;

though his forefathers had already done more than he to ruin us."

On days when Atilio had lost, he was more prone to complain, recalling

the immense estates of the Castros, gained in the conquests in America.

"To-day there are large cities on the fields given by the king to my

forefathers. One of my remote ancestors grazed horses, and built a

colonial country house on land where at the present time you will find

gardens, monuments, and big hotels. There were hundreds of millions of

square yards; at a franc a yard, imagine, Michael! I would be richer

than you, richer than all the millionaires in the world. And I'm only a

well-dressed beggar. Good God! Why didn't my ancestors keep their land,

instead of devoting themselves to serving the king and the people? Why

didn't they do like any peasant who keeps religiously what has been left

him by his ancestors?"

Other evenings, seated in the _loggia_, the Prince listened to Novoa and

gazed at the nocturnal scene of sea and sky. There was no light, save

the veiled gleam from the distant drawing-room. The coast was dark. The

silhouette of Monte Carlo stood out against the starry background,

without a single dot of red. There were few street lights in the city,

and besides, the glass of those few was painted blue. The lamps on the

stairway of the Casino were shrouded like those of a hearse. The German

submarine menace kept the whole Principality, as well as the French

coast, in darkness. Only at the entrance to the harbor of Monaco, the

two octagonal towers kept on their summit a red and a green beacon,

which threw out over the water one shifting path of rubies, and another

of emeralds.

In the darkness, standing and looking at the stars, Novoa talked about

the poetry of space, about distances that defy human calculations. It

was impossible for Spadoni to follow this talk with the same attention

as the Prince and Castro. What did the so-called tri-colored star matter

to him? The millions and millions of leagues that the scientist spoke of

merely made him yawn; and through an association of ideas, he became

absorbed in gambling, mentally, imagining that he was winning fifty

times in succession, doubling each time.

He wagered a simple five franc piece--the smallest bet allowed in the

Casino--and at the end of the twenty-fifth bet he stopped as though

horror-struck. He had won more than a hundred and sixty-seven million

francs. In only twenty-five minutes! The Casino was closing its doors,

declaring the bank broken! But this was not enough to bring him out of

his dream. The marvellous five franc piece remained on the green cloth

beside a mountain of money which kept growing and growing. He must

finish the fifty bets, always doubling. He continued for five more times

and then stopped. He had already won more than five thousand million

francs. They would have to hand over the entire Principality of Monaco

to him, and even that would not be enough perhaps to pay the debt. The

thirty-fifth time the simple "napoleon" had become a hundred seventy-one

billions of francs. They wouldn't pay him; he was sure of that. It would

be necessary for all the great powers of Europe to ally themselves as

though for a great war, and even then perhaps, he, the pianist, Teofilo

Spadoni, would not accept the credit they might offer him.

He could no longer make the calculations mentally. The twentieth time he

had been obliged to have resource to the pencil which he used in the

Casino to note results of the various plays, and to the cards divided in

columns which were distributed by the employees. The back of the card

was rather narrow for his winnings, which kept growing so tremendously

that they had reached fantastic sums. He continued his triumphant

playing. At the fortieth winning he stopped. Five million million

francs. Decidedly neither Europe nor the entire world would be able to

pay him. The nations would have to put themselves up for sale, the globe

would be put on public auction, the women would all have to sell their

bodies and give him the proceeds; and even so it would be necessary to

ask him for several thousands of years in which to pay the debt to him,

the creditor of the universe, seated on his piano stool as though on a

throne.

But although he was certain that he was being deceived, since no one on

earth or heaven could guarantee the bank, he went on playing. There were

only ten more bets to be made. And when he had made the fiftieth he had

a sudden stroke of generosity. In his mind he gave the employees of the

Casino thousands, millions, and millions of millions. For himself he

only kept the amount that figured at the head of his winnings, and wrote

on his card:

5,000,000,000,000,000 francs.

Five thousand billions! For fifty minutes' work, that wasn't bad.

Suddenly his attention was attracted by the silence in which the Prince

and Castro were listening to Novoa, and he fixed his visionary gaze on

the latter, his eyes still dazzled by the golden whirl of the Vision.

The scientist too was talking about millions of millions, figures which

words would not express, and was going into detail, repeating dozens of

ciphers one after the other. He thought he heard the professor surmising

the age which the sun would reach in time--here an interminable

figure--the disappearance of the present forms of life, the recession of

the heavenly body towards an exceedingly remote constellation, and its

final extinction and death--here another appalling sum.

Spadoni smiled disdainfully. The sun, the constellation of Hercules, the

hundred million years that it would take for the former to reach the

earth, the seventeen million years that it would require to lose its

incandescence, and cease furnishing warmth for life on earth, and all

the other calculations of the scientist were as nothing, mere nothing!

If he were to put his money on the green table fifty times more, the

figures obtained by astronomy would appear paltry and ridiculous beside

the winnings obtained in an hour and forty minutes. God alone could be

the banker, and pay with stars as though they were money; and who knows

if God himself would be able to withstand the hundredth time the five

franc piece was wagered, always doubling, and if he would not have to

declare his bank was broken?

Spadoni remained for some time absorbed in inner contemplation of his

greatness. Coming out of his revery he became aware of Novoa's voice

which still sounded a note of mystery, before that dark horizon, dotted

above with the points of light from the stars, and undulating below with

the phosphorescence of the waves.

The Prince urged him to talk of the sea as the regulator and origin of

life. The pianist heard it said that the sea covers three-fourths of the

globe, and, as it represents a large preponderance over the continents,

the latter, though they consider themselves superior, are dominated by

the former, just as governments are obliged to yield to universal

suffrage and respect the strength of majorities. All the great

atmospheric laws are established, not on the lesser surface of the land,

which is rough and broken, but on the vast ocean spaces, which allow the

molecules freely to obey the mechanical laws of fluids.

Spadoni touched Castro on the elbow, and tried to tell him in a low

voice about the unheard-of winnings that he had just made. But Atilio,

without turning around, brushed the interrupting hand aside, and went on

listening.

Novoa was talking about the hot waters which condensed on the globe in

the primordial atmosphere, and had been precipitated on the crust of the

earth which was then in formation, dissolving and tearing down

everything in their way on the new-born surface.

"With the salt that there is in the ocean," Novoa said, "one could

reconstruct the entire African continent."

The pianist stirred once more in his seat. An Africa made of salt! What

could you do with it?

"Castro, listen to me," he said in a low voice. "I put five francs on a

certain bet, fifty times in succession, doubling each time, do you

know?"

But the latter was not interested, and rejected the piece of cardboard

held out to him.

Spadoni, offended, shut his eyes, deciding to isolate himself from the

rest, and not listen to what did not seem to him of any importance. If

the scientist was going to talk every evening, he would dispense with

the hospitality of the Prince, and go in search of other friends.

Suddenly, a word caught his ear and drew him from his shell, causing him

to open his eyes. The Professor was talking about the gold that had been

washed away by the boiling rains at the creation of the globe, and was

still present in solution in the sea.

"There are only a few milligrams in each ton of water, but with all that

there is in the ocean one could form a heap so immense, that, if it were

divided equally among the thousand five hundred million inhabitants of

the earth, we would each get an eighty-five thousand pound ingot, or

some forty tons of gold."

The pianist craned his neck in amazement. What was the Professor saying?

"And," Novoa continued, "according to the value of gold before the war,

each person's ingot would represent some hundred and twenty million

francs."

The silence was broken by a whistling sound. Castro turned his head,

thinking that Spadoni was snoring. Observing the pianist's staring eyes,

he realized that this was a sigh, of real emotion, an exclamation of

surprise.

"I'll give my share for a hundred thousand francs in bank-notes," he

said in solemn tones.

And as the others laughed, he remained with his eyes fixed on Novoa. The

sea! Who would have thought that the sea!... That scientist knew a great

deal; and as for himself, with sudden awe and respect, he determined

that hereafter he would always listen to him.

* * * * *

One night, Atilio and the Prince were eating alone. On leaving the

Casino, the pianist had gone off to Nice with some English friends of

his, who played poker in their landau. Novoa had been invited to dine

with a colleague from the Museum and would not be back until midnight.

Michael was thinking of his impressions of that afternoon. He had gone

to the Casino to attend a classical concert, determined to face the

obsequious curiosity of the employees, and take the risk of running

across former friends. From the outer stairway to the door of the

theater he had been obliged to reply to the series of deep bows from the

various functionaries, some with military caps and gold buttons, others

in solemn frock coats, stiff and dignified like lawyers in a play. The

people who were passing through the portico noticed him immediately.

"Prince Lubimoff!" They all remembered his yacht, his adventures, and

his parties, and repeated his name like the glorious echo of a

resurrected past. He had been obliged to hurry through the groups at top

speed, with a vague stare, feigning absentmindedness, so as not to see

certain well-known smiles, and certain inviting faces which evoked sweet

visions of by-gone days.

In the auditorium he looked for a seat where he would be entirely

inconspicuous, some corner divan, close to the wall; but even there he

was annoyed by the curiosity of the crowd. Around the leader of the

orchestra were the most famous musicians, those who prided themselves on

the title of "Soloists to His Most Serene Highness the Prince of

Monaco." Some of them had sailed with Prince Michael on his yacht, as

members of the orchestra. During a pause in the music, the first violin,

in looking around the room to see if he could recognize any of his

admirers, discovered Lubimoff, and communicated his surprise at once to

the other soloists. They all smiled in his direction, and showed on

their faces that they were dedicating to him alone the music which was

rising from their instruments. Finally the public began to notice the

gentleman who was half hidden, and who was gradually attracting the

attention of the entire orchestra.

When the concert was over Lubimoff left hurriedly, afraid of being

stopped by certain former women friends whom he had observed in the

audience. He crossed the portico brusquely, elbowing his way through the

crowd that barred the way. Here his attention was caught by a person of

majestic bearing and exclusive showy appearance, with a derby of smooth

gray silk, a honey colored overcoat with velvet sleeves of the same

shade, and white gloves and shoes. His gray side-whiskers joined his

mustache; his hair was parted away down to his neck, and over his ears

strayed two locks of hair, cut short and dyed and shining with

cosmetics.

"I thought it was a Russian general or some Austrian of note dressed for

winter, with an elegance worthy of the Riviera, and I find it's you, my

dear Colonel. I hadn't seen you outside of Villa Sirena before."

Toledo blushed, not knowing whether to feel proud or annoyed, at these

words.

"Your Excellency, I always liked to dress well, and...."

"Who was the lady you were talking with?"

"It was the Infanta. She was telling me that she had lost seven thousand

francs that were sent to her from Italy, and that she hasn't the money

to pay her living expenses, and...."

"The tall, thin one, with the big cow-boy hat? No, not that one. I was

asking you about the other."

He had only seen "the other" from behind, but she had attracted his

attention for the moment because of her svelte figure and her queenly

carriage.

"Your Excellency," said Don Marcos, hesitatingly, "that was the Duchess

de Delille."

There was a moment's silence, and as though the Prince had caught him

doing something wrong, that he must apologize for, he hastened to add:

"She is very kind to the Infanta. She gives her children clothes, and I

think she even lends her dresses. The daughter of a King! The

grand-daughter of San Fernando! I am an old legitimist soldier, and the

least I can do is be grateful that...."

Michael cut his excuses short with a gesture. That was enough: he did

not want to hear any more. And he turned to Castro. He had seen him too,

near the entrance to the Casino, talking to another lady.

"And I saw you, too," said Atilio, "but you were in such a rush, going

along with your head down, making your way like a mad bull. Do you want

to know who the lady is? Does she interest you?"

Lubimoff shrugged his shoulders; but his indifference was feigned. As a

matter of fact she had interested him, although slightly. The unknown

woman was tall and blond, with an air of lithe strength, with the

freedom of movement of a gymnast or an amazon.

"Well, that's the _'Generala_,'" Castro continued without observing that

his friend was not paying much heed. "The title of '_Generala_' isn't to

be taken seriously. It's a pet name. I think the Duchess invented it,

for I warn you the two are very good friends. She's a 'General' in the

same way that certain other people are Colonels."

Don Marcos overlooked this bit of irony. Atilio was evidently in a bad

humor that evening. His nerves were on edge, and he seemed ready to snap

at any one. He must have lost in the gambling.

"They call her the 'Generala' because of her somewhat masculine

character, and the brusque way she has of treating people at times. An

extraordinary woman! A real amazon! She shoots, does gymnastics, swims

in the rivers in mid-winter, and what's more she has a voice like the

sighing of the breeze, and looks as though she were going to faint at

the least emotion, like a timid girl. Do you want to know who she is?

Her name is Clorinda, a name of ancient poetry, or ancient comedy. I

always call her Dona Clorinda; it seems as though it would be

disrespectful if I didn't, in spite of the fact that she is still young.

Perhaps two or three years younger than her friend Alicia. The two hate

each other, and they can't live apart. One week each month they clash,

call each other names, and tell the most horrible tales about each

other; then they look each other up; 'How are you, my dear?' 'Are you

angry with me, angel?'"

The Prince smiled at Atilio's imitation of the words and gestures of the

two ladies.

"Clorinda is an American," Castro continued, "but from South America,

from a little Republic where her grandfathers and great-grandfathers

were Presidents, and fighters, and fathers of their country. Her title

of 'Generala' has a certain basis. Over there in her native land they

admire her for her beauty and for the great sensation she is supposed to

have caused in Europe. At a distance, you see, everything is changed and

seems much greater. Her picture is public property, and figures on every

package of coffee, and every advertising prospectus in the country. She

is a national beauty; and when she gets old, there will always be a spot

in the world where she will be considered eternally youthful. She got

married in Paris to a young Frenchman, a dreamer, rather ill with

tuberculosis. That was the very reason why the 'Generala' loved him. If

she had married a strong, fiery sort of man, they would have killed each

other in a few days. She is a widow now. I don't think she is very rich;

the war must have diminished her income, but she has enough to live

comfortably. I even imagine she must suffer fewer hardships than does

the Delille woman. She is an exceedingly well-balanced person."

He remained silent for a moment.

"But she has such queer ideas! She is so used to dominating! I met her

in Biarritz some years ago. I have seen her here often in the gaming

rooms; we have bowed to each other and had a few conversations which did

not amount to much. When a woman is placing her stakes she doesn't allow

compliments that might distract her attention. To-day is the first time

that I have talked with her at any length. Do you know what she asked

me, the very first thing? Why I wasn't in the war. It didn't make any

difference when I told her that I'm neutral, and that the war doesn't

interest me. 'If I were a man, I would be a soldier,' she said. And if

you had only seen the look she gave when she said it!"

Lubimoff smiled a bit scornfully at the woman's words.

"In her opinion," Castro went on saying, "every man ought to work at

something, produce something, be a hero. She adored her poor husband,

gentle as a sick lamb, because he painted a few pale, washed-out

pictures, and had been rewarded in some slight degree at various

expositions. Men like you and me, in her eyes, are a variety of 'supers'

hired to give life to the drawing-rooms, casinos, and bathing resorts,

to keep the conversation going, and be nice to the ladies; but we don't

interest her. She told me so this afternoon once again."

"Does her opinion bother you?" asked the Prince.

Atilio paused for a moment, as though to weigh his words before

replying.

"Yes, it does bother me," he resolutely answered at last. "Why should I

deny it? That woman interests me. When I don't see her, I forget all

about her. Months and years have gone by without my giving her a

thought. But as soon as I meet her she dominates me.... I want her. I

know I can't come up to you in such matters, but I've had successful

love affairs too. But she is so different from the others! Besides,

there's the joy in conquering, the need of dominating, that you find at

the bottom of all our amorous desires! Every time we talk together, and

she makes quite evident, with her bird-like voice and her smile of

compassion, the distance that separates us, I come away sad, or rather,

discouraged, as though I had to climb a great height, of which I would

never reach the top, no matter how hard I tried. To-day I ought to be

happy; it has been months since I've had an afternoon like this. I've

played, and look ... look! Seventeen thousand francs!"

He had taken from his inner pocket a bundle of blue bank-notes, throwing

it on the table with a certain fury.

"I succeeded in winning as high as twenty-six thousand. If there is

anything in the saying, 'Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,' I was as

lucky as a despairing lover or a deceived husband. And yet, I'm not

happy."

The Prince smiled again, as though a self-evident truth had just been

completely demonstrated. Woman! That Clorinda, that devil of a

"Generala," was a real "woman." With a few short minutes of conversation

only, she had turned Castro topsy-turvy, and perhaps would end by

breaking up the peaceful life--without exciting pleasures but without

desperate sorrows as well--that the guests at Villa Sirena were leading.

"And you, Atilio," he said in a reproachful voice, "are moved by that

smooth-voiced virago. You believe in love like a school-boy."

Castro replied in a cold, aggressive tone. The Prince might say whatever

he liked about him; but to call her a virago!... What right had he?

Nevertheless he hid the real cause of his annoyance, pretending to be

hurt by the allusion to his credulity.

"I don't believe in anything; I'm more skeptical than you perhaps. I

know that everything about us is false, and conventional--all a matter

of lies that we accept because they are necessary to us for the moment.

You love music and painting as though they were something divine and

eternal. Very well; if the structure of our ears were to be modified a

little, the symphonies of Beethoven would be a regular din; if the

functioning of our retinas were to change, we would have to burn all the

famous pictures, because they would seem like so many canvases dirtied

by a child's play; if our brains were to be modified, all the poets and

thinkers would become childish idiots for us. No, I don't believe in

anything," he insisted angrily. "In order to live and understand one

another, we have to agree upon a high and a low, a left and a right; but

even that is a lie, since we live in the infinite which has no limits.

Everything we consider fundamental is simply a matter of lines that have

been laid down on the canvas of life to mark off our various

conceptions."

The Prince shrugged his shoulders, giving him a look of surprise. Why

all this, apropos of a woman?

"Everything is a lie," Castro went on; "but that is no reason why I

should live like a stone or a tree. I need sweet falsehoods to sing my

mind to sleep until the hour of my death. Illusions are a lie, but I

want them near me; hope is another lie, but I want it to walk before

me. I don't believe in love, since I don't believe in anything.

Everything you say against it I have known for years; but should I give

it a kick if it comes my way, and wants to go with me? Do you know any

dream that fills the emptiness of our lives better--even though it lasts

only a short time?"

Michael greeted his friend's enthusiasm with a sardonic gesture.

"Do you know why I look younger than I am?" Atilio continued, more and

more excitedly. "Do you know I shall be young when others of my own age

have become old men? I pretend to be ironical. As a matter of fact I'm a

skeptic. But I have a secret, the secret of eternal youth, which I keep

to myself. Let me tell you what it is. I have discovered that the

greatest wisdom in life, the most important thing, is to 'while away the

time'; and I fill the emptiness that every man carries inside him with

an orchestra; the orchestra of my illusions. The great thing is that it

play all the time, that the music rack never be empty; once one piece is

played, another must take its place. At times it is a symphony of love.

Mine have been beautiful but brief. For that reason I have replaced them

with another which is endless--that of ambition and the desire for gain,

whose orbits are infinite like those of the stars in the heavens, and

like the possible combinations of cards. I gamble. In the whirl of the

roulette wheel I see a castle that may be mine, a more sumptuous castle

than any in existence; a finer yacht than the one you used to have;

endless _fetes_. Through a pack of cards I can contemplate things more

magnificent than were dreamed of by the Persian story-tellers. Its

suites are so many piles of precious gems. Most of the time I lose, and

the orchestra plays an accompaniment on muted strings, with a funeral

march of wondrous wild sadness and beauty; but after a few measures,

the march becomes a hymn of triumph, the dawning of a new day, the

resurrection of hope."

And now there was a look of pity in the eyes of the Prince. "He is mad,"

it seemed to say.

"This afternoon," Castro continued, "my orchestra made me acquainted

with a new symphony, something I had never heard before. While I was

winning money I did not think a single time about myself, nor about

palaces, nor yachts, nor parties. I was thinking only of the 'Generala,'

and thinking of her with real hate, wanting to get revenge. I wanted to

win a hundred thousand francs--who knows, I may win it to-morrow--and

spend the whole hundred thousand on a pearl necklace, on leaving the

Casino, and send it to her anonymously with something like this: 'As a

tribute of dislike from a worthless, miserable man.'"

A burst of laughter from the Prince woke the Colonel with a start. As a

good early riser, the latter had gone to sleep in his chair. Observing

that His Excellency was not paying any attention to him, he slipped out

of the Hall, as though he had something of more importance to attend to

than the conversation of the two friends who seemed to ignore his

presence.

"But what do you find in love?" Michael asked. "For I think you know

what love really is. All the illusions of adolescence, and all the

idealism of poetry, are merely winding paths which lead to the same, the

only goal; the physical act. And aren't you tired of that? Aren't you

never daunted by the monotony of it?"

There was a certain gloomy intonation in the Prince's voice, as though

he were lamenting over the ruin of all his own life. He had met hundreds

of women of the sort that cause a sudden burst of mute desire as they

pass. Feminine resistance was something unknown to him. More than that:

women had sought him, coming half-way of their own free will, pursuing

him with no regard for the conventions and modesty, obliging him, as a

matter of masculine pride, to overtax his powers with a prodigality that

made pleasure almost painful. And they were all alike! He understood the

mirage of illusion in the things that one admires from afar, and has no

hope of obtaining. It is our curiosity for what is hidden, the desire

which is aroused by an obstacle, the inner fancies inspired by clothes,

ornaments, everything which covers the feminine body, giving to its

sameness the charm of a mystery which is ever renewed. As for him, alas,

it was as though they all went nude. Nothing could stimulate his

interest; it was all too familiar.

"Besides," and here his voice grew quieter, "I wouldn't confess it to

any one else; but love and women make me think of the miserableness of

human life, the inevitable end, death. Since I've been freed from their

false seductions, I feel gayer, more sure of myself; I enjoy more

frankly the passing moment. I don't want to talk to you about the shame

of those bodies which we claim to be divine. Women are less wholesome

than men. It was Nature's will. But that isn't what makes me flee from

them."

He was silent for a moment, but then added shortly after:

"Whenever I am near a woman I can't help but see the image of death.

When I caress her silky hair, I suddenly seem to feel a smooth, hard

yellow skull, like those one sees protruding from the ground in

abandoned cemeteries. A kiss on her mouth, or a nibble at her chin,

rouses in me a vision of the bony jaw with its teeth, not so different

from those of the anthropoids in the museums. Those eyes will fade; that

nose with its graceful curves and rosy quivering nostrils will dissolve

likewise; the only solid and permanent parts are the black sockets, and

the grotesque grin of the skull, with its flattened nose. Those swelling

breasts are nothing more than false padding to hide the ghastly cage of

the ribs; those legs, which seem to us such wonderful columns, are

stringy flesh and water that will waste away, leaving bare two long

calcareous pipe-stems. We imagine we are adoring supreme beauty, and we

are embracing a skeleton. The image of death fills us with horror, and

every woman carries one within her, and compels us to worship it."

Now it was Castro's turn to gaze in astonishment. His eyes, fixed on the

Prince, seemed to say: "He is mad."

"The trouble with you, Michael, is that you've over-enjoyed," he said

after a long pause. "You make me think of the people who, when they sit

down to the table, hide their lack of appetite with nausea. The most

succulent meat for them suggests the horrors of the slaughter house.

Bread reminds them of the hands that kneaded it, and wine calls up a

picture of feet reeking with juice in the vintage-troughs. But just let

their senses awaken, and their physical needs reassert themselves, and

they see everything in a different light, as though the sun had just

risen, and they find an indescribable charm in the very things that

disgusted them. What difference is it to me if a woman has a skeleton

inside? I have one too, and that doesn't prevent me from taking a great

deal of joy in the pleasures of life, and considering love as the most

interesting of all those pleasures."

Castro laughed with affectionate compassion as he looked at his friend.

"Let me say it again, you are satiated; you have the lack of appetite

and the gloomy vision of a person suffering from a painful indigestion.

You are still too young for this debility to last. You will recover.

Your appetite will come back. I hope you won't find the table set

exactly as in the past, that you will be swept off your feet by some

obstacle, in other words, that unrequital will make you suffer; and then

... well, just wait till then!"