CHAPTER VIII

Spadoni entered Novoa's room with the intention of getting him to talk.

At present he was an ardent believer in the professor's knowledge, and

seeing him well disposed toward gambling and inclined to meditate on its

mysteries, he hoped with simple faith that the scientist would discover

something miraculous, some brilliant idea that would make them both

wealthy. On that account the pianist arose earlier than he was wont, to

surprise the professor during his toilet, considering this the proper

time for matters of confidence.

"The word 'chance,'" said Novoa, "is a term devoid of meaning; or, I

should say rather, chance does not exist. It is an invention of our

human weakness, our ignorance. We say that a phenomenon takes place by

chance when the causes either are unknown to us or seem impossible to

analyze. We are ignorant of the causes of the majority of things that

occur and we get out of the difficulty by attributing them to chance."

The musician opened his eyes wide, and his olive features contracted

with a look of respectful attention. He did not understand the

scientist's words very clearly, but he admired them in advance, as a

prelude to revelations which would be more practical, and of immediate

application.

"Every phenomenon," continued Novoa, "no matter how slight it seems, has

a cause, and the man with an infinitely powerful brain, infinitely well

informed of the laws of Nature, would be capable of foreseeing

everything that might happen within a few minutes or within a few

centuries. With a man like this it would be impossible to play any

gambling game. Chance would not exist for him. Having the secret of the

small causes that at present escape our intelligence, and a knowledge of

the laws that control their combinations, he would know absolutely

everything that might arise from the mystery of a pack of cards or from

the numbers of a roulette wheel. No one could hope to win from him."

"Oh, Professor!" sighed the pianist, in admiration.

Inwardly he prayed that his illustrious friend would go on studying. Who

knows but what a professor might become that all-powerful person, and,

taking pity on a poor pianist, allow him to follow in his trail of

glory!

Novoa smiled at Spadoni's simplicity and went on talking.

"The number of facts which we attribute to chance (and chance is nothing

but a fictitious cause created by our ignorance) varies, in the same

ratio as our ignorance varies, according to the times and according to

the individual. Many things which are chance for an uneducated person,

are not chance for a man of learning. What is chance to-day will not be

perhaps within a few years. Scientific discoveries finally diminish

considerably the domain of chance, just as our ignorance decreases."

The pianist's face beamed with a rapt expression.

"You are a great scholar, Professor, a great scholar!... Don't shake

your head; I know what I'm saying. I have a feeling of certainty that,

if you go on studying these important matters, you will find a system

which...."

The Spaniard interrupted him, pointing to a pack of cards on a nearby

table. It was easy to guess that he had been studying during the night,

before going to bed. These cards were for Spadoni evidence of scientific

studiousness, worthier of respect than all the books from the library

of the Prince, which lay forgotten in the corners. At present the

Professor was interested in the mysteries of chance, and Spadoni was

certain that he would discover something better than anything which had

been invented thus far by ordinary gamblers.

But his hope vanished at Novoa's gesture of dismay.

"Look at that pack of cards: A few pieces of cardboard and,

nevertheless, they contain the immensity of the universe! They cause in

one the feeling of dizziness inspired by the Infinite, just as when you

look upward with a telescope or downward with a microscope. Do you know

how many combinations can be made with a pack of fifty-two cards? I

don't know how to express it: nor will you find the figure in a

dictionary or an arithmetic, as it is useless, since it lies beyond

human calculations. Let us coin the word: eighty unidecillions, or the

figure eight followed by sixty-six ciphers. Two men who began to play

with a pack of fifty-two cards and played a hand every minute, each hand

being different, would not be able to exhaust all the possible

combinations in five million centuries."

There was a long silence, as though the walls of the room had shrunk

under the weight of these inconceivable numbers. Spadoni bowed his head.

"Now, tell me," continued the Professor, "what can a poor human being,

with all his calculations of probabilities, do against this infinity!"

And seizing a handful of cards, he let them fall again like a whispering

rain of colors on the table.

"Everything depends on chance," he added, "or I should say, on error. We

lose through error and win through it likewise. Our error is the result

of an infinity of infinitesimal errors due to another infinity of small

causes, the analysis of which we cannot even attempt. These tiny causes

are all independent of one another, and since they are directed by

chance, they operate in one way as readily as in another. When the

infinitesimal is positive, it causes us to win, when it is negative, we

lose."

Spadoni nodded his head, although he scarcely understood. The one thing

clear to him were the infinitesimal errors which cause us to lose. He

was acquainted with them; they were like microbes, malevolent germs,

which always clung to him. He wished that his learned friend might

discover an antiseptic that would put an end to them.

"Besides," said Novoa, "if there are probabilities of winning, these

probabilities are in proportion to the wealth of the gamblers. A poor

gambler has less chance of winning than one who has capital at his

disposal."

"Then, how about us?" the musician asked in a melancholy voice.

"We are the under dogs and were born to be victims. Gambling is an image

of life: the strong triumph over the weak."

Spadoni remained thoughtful.

"I have seen wealthy gamblers," he said, "who were finally ruined like

the rest."

"Because they don't stop in time, at the point where the resisting power

of their capital brings the hour of winning. In life, as well, the great

devourers, soldiers, multi-millionaires, and rulers, are in turn

devoured in the final leveling: death. But before that time, they

triumph through a powerful means that fate has placed in their hands. We

who are poor, never triumph continuously for a whole day. Trying to win

a great fortune with small capital is equivalent to wanting to lose that

small capital."

They both fell silent, discouraged; but Novoa seemed to have suffered

the contagion of his companion's dreams, and felt the necessity of

bolstering him up again with some fantastic meditation fit for a

gambler.

"You know, Spadoni, how much one can win with a thousand francs? Last

night I undertook to make the calculation."

He pointed to a piece of paper covered with figures which was protruding

from among the cards. So Novoa was up to the same tricks as the pianist!

"With a thousand francs, doubling each time in forty-three games (some

four hours), one could win a block of gold a hundred thousand million

times as large as the sun."

"Oh, Professor!"

They both looked at each other with mystic ardor, as though they were

actually contemplating this immeasurable block. Beside such a vision

what did the winnings of a few paltry millions mean?

Toledo was beginning to realize, little by little, the gradual

transformation of his friend, the scientist.

Novoa was greatly interested in his personal appearance; he had asked

the Colonel to recommend him to his tailor in Nice; and the Professor

made frequent trips to the latter city, merely to make purchases.

Besides, he was gambling. Don Marcos frequently surprised him beside a

table in the Casino, standing and meditating before risking one of the

few chips which he held tightly in his hand. He seemed dazzled by the

ease with which he won. The amounts were small, but so large in

comparison with those which he had received for his previous work as a

Professor! In half an hour he could win a month's salary. In an

afternoon he had succeeded in amassing three thousand francs; half a

year's work at teaching and in the laboratory.

Monte Carlo seemed to him an interesting place and life there a quiet

relaxation, which stood out above the grave, laborious monotony of his

previous existence. The Museum of Oceanography could wait; it would not

move away during his absence from the point on the rock of Monaco. The

science of maritime zoology was not going to be revolutionized in a few

months. And when the director saw him with a gay excited look enter,

from time to time, the quiet silent atmosphere of the Museum, and when

he observed his gay clothes, and the closeness with which he followed

men's style, he sadly shook his head. Novoa was not the first. Oh, Monte

Carlo! The old professors looked with the stern face of prophets at the

city opposite. Young men who arrived from various places in the world to

study the mysteries of the ocean, ended by making mathematical

calculations on the probabilities of roulette.

"Besides, he is in love," said Castro, communicating to Toledo his

impressions in regard to Novoa. "When he isn't gambling he is with that

Valeria woman."

They were engaged. The professor, with an air of mystery, had told this

to all his friends, asking each one to keep the secret. After idle

gallantries as a student, this was the first, the great love of his

life. He was worried somewhat by the humbleness of his position. When

they were married what would Valeria say on learning how little he

earned as a scientist? But immediately he placed his hope on gambling,

the undreamt of fortune which at present offered itself each day.

"If this goes on a few months," he told the Colonel, "I will have gotten

together a tidy little sum before I have completed my studies. Every day

I lay something aside, and nevertheless I am spending more than ever. I

must dress smartly like my fiancee."

And Don Marcos replied with an ambiguous smile.

Novoa's happiness was accompanied by a certain pride. He considered his

future life companion a great lady, of higher intellectual capacity and

capable of more serious pursuits than the majority of women of her

class. She was poor, and for that reason accepted a position bordering

on that of a servant. But seeing her on familiar terms with the Duchess,

he considered her of as high rank as the latter, and finally blended the

affairs of both women in a common interest. And since Dona Clorinda was

at present an implacable enemy of Alicia's, and since Atilio blindly

espoused the whims and ideas of "the General," a hidden animosity began

to spring up between the two men, who up to that time had treated each

other with amiable indifference.

"Women!" murmured Toledo on observing the progress of this dislike. "The

Prince was right...."

But other more important preoccupations tormented the Colonel. The

greatly feared offensive had begun. The telegrams from the front were

brief and bad. The Allies were retreating before the German advance.

Their lines were not broken, but were wavering, and curving backwards

under the overwhelming blows of the enemy. Every day dozens of villages

and great stretches of territory were lost.

Don Marcos, with the bursts of anger of a Polytechnic freshman,

protested against the lack of foresight of the Generals, mingling his

complaints with those of the crowd.

"I knew it would come," he said, with a self-sufficient air to the

groups of idlers in the ante-room of the Casino, where he was listened

to because of his military title. "The Kaiser has massed in France all

the troops that he had in Russia. Who wouldn't have expected it? And our

forces are doubtless inferior in numbers."

The bombardment of Paris finally routed all his ideas of strategy.

"Lies!" he roared, standing in front of the telegraphic despatches on

the bulletin board, and reading of the first shells that had fallen in

Paris. It was impossible: he was ready to stake his word, and was well

informed as to the range of modern artillery. And on learning the

existence of cannon that fired more than a hundred kilometers, he was

disconcerted. "What times we're living in! What a war this is!"

When the ladies consulted him in the Casino or in the Hotel de Paris, he

displayed unshakable optimism in the face of the bad news.

"This is nothing: The reaction is going to set in. Our men are

withdrawing in order to be better able to take the offensive."

But when he was alone his sense of security collapsed, and he could not

hide from himself that his faith was shaken like that of the rest.

"They will reach Paris, if God does not take a hand," he said to

himself. "A miracle is necessary, another miracle like that of the

Marne."

For the good Colonel still firmly believed that the first battle of the

Marne had been a miracle wrought by Saint Genevieve, by Joan of Arc, or

some other beatific person able to intervene in human combats, much as

the false gods sung by Homer had intervened. Did not St. James fight in

the battles of Spain, whenever the Christians attacked the Moors?

"And the miracle has been rendered worthless," he said bitterly. "It

will have to be repeated, they will have to begin again, after four

years of war."

With the bombardment of Paris the population of the Riviera had

increased considerably in a few weeks. The trains were arriving packed

with fugitives. The streets of Nice were filled with strangers just as

in peace times, when the Carnival was celebrated. Monte Carlo found its

crowds largely increased and new gambling rooms were opened in the

Casino.

Toledo spent the afternoon and the early evening hours in the anteroom,

always expecting good news, and accepting the bad with an easy optimism

which found excuse and justification for everything.

The circle of his friends was gradually increasing. Every day he came

across well known faces that he had not seen for a long time. He shook

hands, and returned greetings. "You here!" The cannon firing on Paris

from an extraordinary distance filled the gambling rooms with a

well-dressed crowd, almost as numerous as that of peace times.

Don Marcos continued to announce the reaction, the counter-offensive for

the following day, as though he were in touch in some mysterious way

with the General Staff. And the anger aroused by the daily failure of

his predictions was taken out on the gamblers. "What a life, what an

indecent life! Appetites that know no morals! The selfishness of

brutes!"

The people around the Colonel seemed to be sorry for a moment as they

read the bad news. Then, the majority entered the Casino. Perhaps it was

a lack of thoughtfulness on their part, or perhaps it showed a desire to

forget, to seek in gambling the illusions of alcohol. But the tiny ivory

ball whirled tirelessly in the many roulette wheels. The cards did not

cease to fall in double row on the _trente et quarante_ tables, and the

crowds around the green boards kept on increasing.

The people were nervous, argumentative, and irritable, and lost their

manners over a mere gambling incident. The activity on the far-off

battle line spread like a fierce wind, around the tables; there was an

aggressive look in the eyes of the women. Every cannon shot fired on

far-away Paris reverberated like an echo in the rain of money falling in

Monte Carlo.

When Toledo, the strategist, attempted to put forth his opinions and

plans in Villa Sirena, he found a less attentive audience than in the

ante-room of the Casino. The Prince had much more interesting things to

think of. Novoa displayed a certain selfish joy, as though considering

this period the best in his life, and the world's misfortunes merely

something which gave a keener zest to his secret happiness. Spadoni

listened to war talk as though people were talking of some ancient

fiction.

As for him, reality was what he wanted, and he interrupted the Colonel

to tell him about more interesting matters. At present he scorned the

Casino, and was frequenting the _Sporting-Club_, where there gathered

the boldest gamblers who preferred to use chips of five thousand francs.

A Greek, who had been a common sailor in his youth, reigned there like a

hero of epic legends, admired by the ladies in ball-room dresses and the

solemn gentlemen in evening clothes who gathered together in that

aristocratic club. He had learned to read and write after he had grown

up, but he possessed an immense fortune. The night before, after dealing

for three hours, he had won a million two hundred thousand francs.

Spadoni had seen it with his own eyes, and imitated the hero's gestures

as he rose from the table, with a little wicker basket held in both

hands, a miserable little basket containing, as so much sweepings, heaps

of blue bills, and piles of five thousand franc chips. Why should they

talk to him about Generals and battles? There was a man for you!

Castro had been listening to the Colonel in a silence that augured ill,

and with a coolly aggressive look. Suddenly, he interrupted the plans of

strategy of Don Marcos.

"And when are they going to promote you?"

Many of the Generals who at present were celebrated, had been mere

Colonels at the beginning of the war. It was about time that Toledo was

shoved up a notch on the Army Register.

And poor Don Marcos, wounded by this cruel jest, replied in a dignified

manner:

"I am satisfied with what I am, senor de Castro."

He knew perfectly well what he was: a Colonel, and he did not care to be

anything more. And several times he repeated to himself that he did not

want to be anything more.

In spite of the fact that at Villa Sirena each one was preoccupied with

his own affairs, appearing absent-minded when the other guests were

talking, Atilio's bad humor was making their life in common rather

unpleasant.

Toledo had a feeling that he knew the reason for this conduct. Dona

Clorinda was doubtless treating him badly, and he, in turn, was getting

revenge for these humiliations and vexations by showing himself harsh

and ironical with his friends. The Colonel had been obliged to calm

Clorinda when he met her (discussing the news of the war) in the Casino.

She felt a strong antipathy to every man who was not in uniform, a

little more and she would have insulted them.

"Slackers! Cowards! If I were a man!"

Although she was not, she felt the need of doing something, and was

consumed with impatience at not being able to use her energies among the

whistling bullets at the front. Finally, she found a means of being

useful.

She decided to leave for Paris. When every one who was able to run away

from there was hastening to do so, she determined she would go and take

up her residence in her former house, defying with her presence the

cannon and aeroplanes of the enemy.

Castro took the liberty timidly to suggest that this sacrifice would

have no effect. The Colonel added, with his professional judgment, that

it seemed to him foolish, but she was in no way disposed to modify her

determination.

The outcome of the war concerned her passionately, and she entered into

the spirit of it with a nervous vehemence like that which disturbed her

friendly relationships.

"If the Allies shouldn't win, life for me would be impossible. How those

miserable wretches would laugh! I would rather die."

The miserable wretches were the friends she had formerly had before the

war, people of various nationalities who, through pose or through

personal interest, sympathized with the Germans. The "General" with a

feeling of pride that inspired fear, really and sincerely wanted to die,

rather than see triumphant those whom she had chosen as enemies.

"If I were a man!" And Atilio, who sought every occasion to be near her

in the Casino, or exaggerated the beauty of certain spots, in order to

induce her to take walks with him there alone, hastened to flee at these

words, in which he detected an insult.

Later, on finding himself at Villa Sirena, his submission as a lover

changed to hostility for the rest.

He had discovered that he hated Novoa, or, rather, that logically he

ought to hate him. Dona Clorinda was quarreling with Alicia, and the

blue-stocking for whom the Professor felt such enthusiasm was the

companion and protegee of the Duchess. For that reason he ought to be an

enemy of Novoa. They were like two men who have never done each other

any particular harm, but belong to two nations which are at war.

Besides--and he would not have been willing to confess it--the air of

satisfaction and triumph of the scholar caused him a certain envy. Novoa

was never squelched nor treated with indifference, it was the woman who

sought him, making an effort to flatter his tastes, pretending

scientific interest in things which made no difference to her

whatsoever: merely for the sake of keeping him under her sway. Happy

man! And how disagreeable! As always happens when one is beginning to be

disliked, Atilio discovered, almost daily, various sources of annoyance

of which he told Toledo.

His friend, the Professor, was trying to make fun of him, and he was not

disposed to tolerate it. One day Atilio had to wait half an hour at the

barber's. The Professor was in his chair and using _his_ manicure. Such

nerve! He was doubtless trying to outshine him, and for that reason he

even got his clothes from the same tailor in Nice. Another piece of

insolence! Besides, he didn't know how to wear clothes. And he even

suspected that, to please his fiancee and the latter's mistress, that

book-worm was probably taking the liberty of saying mean things about a

certain lady, and if he ever found it out!...

But the Colonel paid no attention to such threats. The sad news from the

war made the matters of daily life seem unimportant.

The Germans were continuing to advance on Paris. Under the repeated

blows of the enemy the retreat of the Allies seemed endless, and

Toledo's hopes diminished from moment to moment. By this time, he was

prepared for anything! The invaders had an overwhelming numerical

superiority!

He had only one hope left. If the aid promised by the United States were

actually to materialize! Supposing it did not turn out to be a bluff, as

many people thought! Now in his imagination, all he could see was

America, its harbors filled with armed multitudes, and the blue surface

of the ocean plowed by thousands of boats, bringing endless armies to

land on European shores. And as weeks went by without his dreams being

realized, he began to give advice to Wilson from the Groves of Villa

Sirena, or from among the jasper columns of the ante-room of the Casino.

"What is the man thinking of? Why don't they come? If they don't hurry,

it will all be over before they arrive."

War and discord made their appearance nearer at hand, within his own

domains, causing him for a few hours to consider the general

conflagration as a matter of secondary interest.

He never knew for sure who started the row, but one night during dinner,

he noticed that Castro and Novoa, with studied coolness, were exchanging

words like sword thrusts. The Prince could not suspect any hostility

between his two friends, since never in his presence did they depart

from the usual forms of courtesy. Besides, occupied with his own

thoughts, he did not realize that the Professor, stirred up, doubtless,

by Atilio's animosity, had become somewhat quarrelsome. Novoa made a

slight allusion to the war-like "General," who was talking about going

to Paris, as though her presence there could have any effect on the war.

Castro saw in this remark a reflection of the enmity of the Duchess.

Doubtless, Valeria and Novoa had laughed together over Dona Clorinda's

enthusiasm. And he turned against Alicia's protegee, calling her a

penniless blue-stocking, who was always rubbing elbows with great ladies

though she was only a servant herself! He could not understand

sentimental love affairs with women of that class. He felt a temptation

to attack the Duchess de Delille also, but, remembering that she was a

relative of the Prince, he refrained.

The two men sat there pale and silent, looking daggers at each other.

The next day, Atilio, before leaving for the Casino, called Don Marcos

aside. Perhaps he would soon have an affair of honor on his hands; and

could he count on the Colonel as second?

The Colonel drew up to his full height, with a grave frown. Several

years had passed since he had performed that solemn function, for which

he seemed to have been born. His last duel dated some eight years back:

a meeting on the Italian frontier between two gentlemen who had

exchanged blows over cheating at cards.

His face became even more gloomy as he bowed in sign of consent, raising

his hand to his breast. Since with Don Marcos every action carried with

it proper details in dress, he felt that it was impossible to perform a

certain act without the corresponding costume, and he suddenly

remembered a certain frock coat, which had long been forgotten in his

wardrobe, and which he called his "duelling uniform," a black garment,

of Napoleonic cut, with long tails, which he brought to light whenever

he was a second and, owing to his military name, was called upon to

direct a combat.

"I accept. One gentleman cannot refuse another gentleman such a favor."

And he accepted with true thankfulness, thinking how proper it would be

to take this suit, as solemn as death, from its prison among the

moth-balls, and give it an airing.

But that same afternoon Novoa came to look him up. The Professor spoke

timidly, without the elegant indifference of Castro, and with a certain

sense that he might be acting foolishly. Perhaps he would soon have an

affair of honor on his hands.

"Since I don't understand such matters, Colonel, you will be my second.

I have studied along other lines; but when a lady is insulted and when I

see a young defenseless girl trampled upon, I consider myself as much a

man as the bravest."

Don Marcos started. No, indeed! His eyes were open to the truth. He

forgot about airing his frock coat; it might remain in its odorous tomb.

And since the Professor was less to be feared than the other man, he let

loose all his wrath on Novoa. Imagine fighting over mere nonsense, when

millions of men were giving their blood for great ideals! and he, who

had referred so frequently to his many experiences as a second as heroic

actions, made a gesture of disgust, as though something offensive to his

honor were being proposed to him.

A few days later, Novoa spoke to the Prince, with the brevity that ill

concealed his emotions. He was very thankful to the owner of Villa

Sirena; he would never forget his pleasant life in that retreat, but it

was necessary for him to return to his former lodgings. He had important

work on hand which would not allow him to live far from Monaco; the

director of the Museum was complaining of his absences.

And he went away, to live in a poor house in the old city, renouncing

all the comforts and luxury of the mansion in charge of the Colonel.

In spite of such excuses, the Prince expressed his doubts to Toledo. He

did not clearly understand this flight. Perhaps there were some other

reasons which he could not guess.

"Yes; perhaps there are," replied Don Marcos, with a knowing smile. "It

must be a question of women."

Michael nodded. Doubtless, it is on account of Valeria. Living in Monaco

he felt himself freer to meet the girl.

"Women!" the Prince exclaimed. "What a power they have over us!"

"And what a mess they make of friendships among men!"

Toledo's voice as he said this was as sad as the Prince's had been on

enumerating to his friends the advantages of living away from women. On

the other hand, Michael was now himself submitting to a woman's

domination, and almost envied the scientist returning to his former

modest life in order to meet the woman he loved more frequently.

As for himself, Michael was less happy. Days went by without his being

able to repeat his promenade with Alicia in the gardens of Monaco.

"I love you!" she said. "You may believe that I haven't forgotten that

afternoon. Later on we will take the same trip, but not now, I know how

it would end. It is impossible for me.... I am thinking of my son."

Michael had no doubt that this was true, but something more than worry

over the absent one was at the time in her thoughts. She had abandoned

herself once more to gambling with the money she had found in her house.

The Prince even suspected that she had sold or pawned the pin with which

he had repaired the tear in her dress. After giving her the Princess

Lubimoff's pearl, he had not seen it again. Alicia seemed unmoved at the

first splendor of Spring.

"Some day we shall go there," she said, when he recalled to her the

gardens of San Martino, "I promise you. But I must be free from worry, I

must lose everything or win everything. I must make the most of my time.

As you see, luck seems to be remembering me again."

She was winning little, but she was winning, and this caused her to

hope that that sudden burst of good luck which had stirred the Casino,

would be repeated.

In the evening she withdrew contented. She had three or four thousand

francs more, but what did that amount to? She lamented the smallness of

her capital. She wanted to play the "grand jeu" and win back all that

she had lost. Winning thus little by little, she would never get

anywhere. If she could only get together again the thirty thousand

francs, which rose and fell, but always remained faithful!

Michael remained in the Casino for hours at a time near her table,

watching for a propitious occasion, without being able to obtain more

than brief conversation when she was resting from the play, or taking

tea in the bar of the private rooms.

One morning he went to surprise her in her villa. It was ten o'clock. He

met Valeria who had just put on her hat, and seemed annoyed at this

visit. Perhaps she was going to Monaco, perhaps her man of Science was

waiting for her in one of the side streets of Monte Carlo.

"The Duchess has gone," she said, smiling, "she must be in the midst of

her work."

Among the gamblers the Casino was known as the "factory," and they

really meant it, when they referred to their worry and scheming around

the tables as their "work."

Doubtless she had spent a large part of the night figuring, in order to

be on hand at the Casino, at the opening hour, her eyes still heavy with

sleep, and without paying any attention to her personal adornment, as

though there were all too little time for carrying out some wonderful

combination she had just discovered.

Whenever he met her, the Prince, with a childish rather ill-concealed

motive, alluded to her son's fate. It was only thus that he could rouse

her from her preoccupations with gambling, which kept her constantly

distracted, talking and smiling automatically, like a person walking in

her sleep.

One day, Lubimoff showed her various telegrams and letters from Madrid,

Paris, and Berne. Kings and Ministers had taken up the task of finding

out the fate of the aviator who had disappeared. A promise came over

from Berlin, through the medium of a neutral nation, to look for the

young man in every prison cantonment. They suspected that he might be

confined in Poland, in a punishment camp.

Alicia began at once ardently to measure time, as though the longed-for

notice might arrive at any moment.

"In Heaven's name, please, Michael! Write, telegraph this very day. Tell

the gentlemen who have been so kind to send their answer directly to me.

The telegram or letter might come to your Villa while you are away, and

I would be hours and hours without knowing anything about it! No, have

them write to me. Every day, when I go out, I tell my gardener that if

there is a telegram he should bring it to me at the Casino. Imagine my

impatience! Tell me you'll do this. Promise me you won't forget!"

The one thing that the Prince was at all able to forget, while he was by

Alicia's side, was his own personal business. His mind was entirely

taken up with discovering the forgotten captive, on whom his happiness

depended.

"The day I learn for certain that he is alive!... you will see then how

different I am. I shan't bore you with my troubles: you will find a

different woman."

And as a matter of fact, her smile and her glances, full of promises,

caused him to see in her once more the Alicia who had walked beside him

on the path along the seashore, with her lips pressed closely to his in

an endless kiss.

When he found himself alone, he was assailed by his own troubles and

worries. He had received news from Russia through various fugitives who

had just been freed from the persecution of the Revolution. The men who

formerly administered his estate there had been murdered. The Lubimoff

palace was being used as the headquarters of a Bolshevist Committee. His

mines were national property, although no one was working them; his land

had been divided; various persons of obscure origin, former old clothes

dealers and liquor merchants, had become the owners of his houses, no

one knew how. And at the same time that he received this news, which

made his future so uncertain, he learned other details which embittered

his pleasantest memories. A great lady of the Court, with whom he had

had a love affair, the memory of which he cherished, was now selling

newspapers on the sidewalks; another very elegant lady, who had set all

the fashions in Saint Petersburg, was sweeping snow on the streets of

Petrograd, and had lost several fingers by freezing. He could count by

the dozen friends of his who had been killed; some of them shot with

revolvers like rats, in the depths of some dungeon, others executed by

firing squads. Several had perished of hunger, just as years before

those of the lower classes, who now were taking revenge, had died.

All these horrors aroused his selfish instincts, causing him to take

fresh delight in his own situation. The world had been plunged into a

bloody madness. East and west men were rushing about like wild beasts,

while he remained quietly beside the most smiling of seas, with love and

desire filling his life, which had been so empty before, and awakening

anew the ardor and enthusiasm of youth. At the very hour when thousands

of human beings were dying in crowds, and the whole villages were being

swept from the surface of the earth, he was living under the sway of a

woman, and finding his servitude very sweet.

One afternoon, in the bar of the private room, Alicia spoke to him with

an air of resolution. She must play big stakes. She was tired of

"working" on small capital, and gaining small returns. Besides, she

scorned the Casino with its limited bets, its roulette and _trente et

quarante_, almost mechanical games in which you cannot see the banker

sitting opposite, but instead mere employees.

"All that gives you the impression of struggling with a formidable

machine, that functions monotonously, with no imagination, no soul. I

must play _baccarat_."

She had gotten her thirty thousand francs together once more: either

enormous winnings or nothing! She preferred to lose everything and end

it once for all at a single stroke.

"To-night in the Sporting Club. Don't say no: I need you. I have a

feeling that this is going to be the decisive night for me--and perhaps

for you. Sit opposite me so that I can see you. Remember that on the

lucky afternoons you were near me. You will bring me luck. Don't shake

your head; you will bring me luck, I tell you."

And she said it with such conviction, that Michael could no longer

withhold his consent.

"Come, you will gain by it: I promise you. You will gain by it, no

matter what the result. If they clean me out, to-morrow we will go for a

walk in the Monaco Gardens, as we did before. And if I win--if I

win,--all you want!..."

She did not need to say any more. The look in her eye and her smile

filled Michael with enthusiasm. He would see her at the Club.

That night, Castro and Toledo were surprised at seeing the Prince sit

down at the table dressed, like themselves, in a Tuxedo.

"The Boss isn't staying home," said Atilio to the Colonel. "He too is

going to the opera."

He went to the Casino theater, to while away the time until midnight. He

would not have been able to tell for a certainty with whom he talked

during the intermission, nor with whom he shook hands. He was obliged to

make an effort several times to recall the name and composer of the

opera. The music made no difference to him. It was a lulling sound which

rocked his thoughts to sleep, calming his emotion--an emotion made up of

hope and of fear.

During the first act, he wanted Alicia to lose everything, absolutely

everything, thus she would be his more completely, depending absolutely

on him, in sweet bondage. Later, during the following act he thought of

Alicia's despair after such a loss. She was full of temperament, and she

felt the pride of an artist in her play. Perhaps more than the lost

money, she would lament her personal defeat. No, it was better that she

should win. But how long the music was lasting! How slowly his watch

seemed to go! After eleven, when the lobby was lighted and the crowd was

leaving the opera, Michael got into an elevator, which took him down

into the bowels of the earth, and then he followed a subterranean

passageway, the multi-colored stucco walls of which brilliantly

reflected the electric lights. He was walking along under the square

front of the Casino, where at that moment many carriages were passing

back and forth. Another elevator took him up to a large room filled with

columns. It was the great hall of the Hotel de Paris. He saw women in

evening gowns and gentlemen dressed in Tuxedos, the usual crowd of

fashionable hotel people who put on uniforms for dinner, and then sit

around in deep armchairs, to digest what they have eaten, looking at one

another without talking, or else conversing in low tones, as though they

were in church, until they are overcome by sleep.

He bowed distantly to various friends who arose, on seeing him, to begin

a conversation. He pretended not to see certain ladies who smiled at

him, motioning with their heads to call him. He entered another

elevator, and descended once more underground. He found himself in a

curving passageway, the walls of which were decorated with Pompeian

paintings. It extended under two hotels and their gardens. Once more he

entered an elevator, which brought him above the surface of the ground.

He opened a glass door. An old lackey, in a blue livery, with knee

breeches and white stockings, bowed, somewhat surprised at recognizing,

after a moment's hesitation, Prince Lubimoff. He was in the Sporting

Club.

He had not entered it for years, since before the war. He was not a

gambler, and it was only because he had been interested in certain women

that he had spent his nights amid elegant society in that place which,

like many others of the same class, was merely a gambling den.

The drawing rooms were too small, after midnight; one walked along

stepping on the trains of women's gowns. One had to be very dextrous to

slip through between the various groups. Every one was smoking, the

women more than the men, and the atmosphere grew thicker and thicker

with tobacco smoke and the perfumes of the boudoir. The wealthy people

scorned the crowds at the Casino, considering it a sign of distinction

to be packed in together in this club. They gambled with their own set,

considering themselves safe from bad neighbors at the tables, and from

contact with suspicious characters who were so frequent in the public

rooms. To get in here, it was necessary to give guarantees; some one

must vouch for the honor of a person before he could be presented.

The Prince was well acquainted with this brilliant gathering. Here one

might meet people of royal blood, heirs to thrones, who were passing

through the Riviera, famous bankers, millionaires from all parts of the

world, women celebrated for their nobility, their beauty, or their

jewels, and many famous and aged _cocottes_ and a few, young and fresh

looking, who were anxious to grow old as soon as possible, as though

that were a means of attaining celebrity. They had all appeared on the

stage, at one time or another, in a trained-rabbit act, perhaps, or in

some wretched dance, or with a song which they sang in spite of the fact

that they had no voices. They were admitted to the Club under the rather

vague classification of "artists."

Michael came forward through the atmosphere warm from the crowds and

heavy with fading perfumes. He still had to watch where he stepped this

time as he had done on his visit here before. Now, to be sure, women's

skirts were very short, and their legs were shown uncovered, with a

placid lack of shame. The war was shortening their skirts, as though the

women, obliged to run in the open field, had taken as a model the

ancient Vivandiere. But almost all of them, in order not to break

completely with a majestic tradition, had added to their stylish

overskirts, a sharp and narrow tail, tongue-shaped, which dragged far

behind as they walked.

A lady came forward to meet Lubimoff, and it was a moment before he

recognized her. It had been so many years since he had seen Alicia in

evening dress! Her gown dated back to pre-war times, but was of rich

material and the Duchess wore it with the same smartness as in the days

of her wealth. The long pearl necklace gained an air of genuineness on

her person, as did her other ornaments. It was evident that she had made

extraordinary efforts to present a proper appearance on her visit to the

Club.

She came here seldom, the crowd composed of former friends talked too

much, disturbing her in her gambling calculations. She preferred the

Casino, with its large rooms and its motley crowd, talking in various

languages. She was a proletarian in the matter of gambling: she had a

superstition that fortune prefers to come where its devotees gather in

large bands. Her intuition that she would be lucky at _baccarat_, a game

to be found only here, had persuaded her to abandon her usual custom for

this one night.

The Prince complimented her on her lovely appearance, her dress, her

pearls....

"False, scandalously false, my dear," she said, laughing and looking

about her. "But you know very well that the majority of those worn by

the other women are no better. Ah, pearls! If all that shine in the

world were brought together, the sea would not be large enough to have

produced a tenth part."

She led the Prince toward the bar. She had a favor to ask of him. At

midnight the game of _baccarat_ commenced: she had asked for "the bank,"

but the rules of the Club prevented her from getting it. Alas for women!

Even in gambling they were condemned to a position of degrading

inferiority. Lost in the common crowd of "ponteurs" they might lose a

fortune, but they were forbidden ever to hold the bank. The directors of

this Club and other similar ones doubtless feared that women were more

given to cheating than men. She, the Duchess de Delille, could not be

the equal of a Greek sailor, who dealt every evening with unheard-of

luck, causing the crowd to feel suspicious and think evil thoughts.

"They insist that I get a man to deal for me. He must appear as my

banker, although every one knows that the capital is mine. I thought

that you might do me this favor. I like to think of our going together

into this business which means life or death to me! Besides, I am sure

of success if you deal. And what an event! How they would bet! Prince

Lubimoff playing the banker!"

But she did not continue. Michael interrupted her with a decisive

gesture of refusal. It made no difference what she said. He was

indignant at the very idea that people should see him seated at the

green table, playing with money that did not belong to him, and having

Alicia at his back. Besides, he was sure of losing.

The Duchess hastily left him. Time was flying, and any minute they might

give out the bank. She believed once more in her good star as she saw a

young man timidly slipping through the crowd.

"Spadoni! Spadoni!"

The pianist grew pale on hearing her. "Oh, Duchess!" He trembled and

stammered with emotion. _He_ dealing in the _Sporting-Club_ before an

elegant opera night crowd, handling thousands of francs, with all eyes

fixed on him! It was the crowning moment of his career; after that he

could die happy.

Two players had asked for the bank, the famous Greek and a manufacturer

from Paris, who had gotten fabulously rich making munitions. Spadoni

also presented himself, carrying in a purse the fifteen thousand francs

which were necessary in order to take charge of the bank. Lots were to

be drawn among the three petitioners. An employee of the Club took a

wicker basket that held ten numbered balls and after shaking it, threw

out three on the table: one for each. Alicia mingling with them with

masculine familiarity, almost clapped her hands with joy. Luck had

favored Spadoni, the bank was his. But the pianist, respectful of the

privileges due to genius, showed his sense of profound humility in

smiles and expressions of face and eyes that seemed to beg pardon of the

Greek, his rival.

The Greek was a stout man with a figure that almost formed a square,

with a dark shiny complexion, black mustache and eyes that were somewhat

slanting, and had a fixed aggressive look, suggesting those of a wild

boar. His ancestors had been pirates in the Archipelago, and he, finding

this heroic career cut off, had become a smuggler in his youth. Spadoni,

somewhat intimidated by the majesty of the great man, stammered excuses

with his eyes fixed on the Greek's shining shirt-bosom, adorned with

pearls, and his gray silk vest that covered a heavy paunch. But the

Greek replied, with an ill-humored grunt, walking away after favoring

the Duchess with a bow like one of those he had seen on the stage.

Although he scarcely knew how to read, the Greek was posted on the

proper way of treating a lady who declares war.

It was twelve o'clock. The gambling stopped at the roulette wheels and

the _trente et quarante_ tables. The crowd was gathering in the baccarat

room. The news had gone around: The pianist Spadoni, considered by every

one as a pleasing parasite, was going to occupy the place that had been

held on former evenings by the Greek, but in reality the bank belonged

to the Duchess de Delille.

A triple row of people formed around the table, jamming together to get

a better view over adjoining shoulders.

Spadoni smiled, but finally the ironic curiosity fixed on his person

began to make him nervous. Many of those who were gazing on him were

important personages and had always inspired him with deep respect.

Fortunately, he felt the Duchess at his back, seated there with an air

of ownership, and watching him with a look of authority. If he made any

mistake, the great lady was capable of striking him.... Courage and

forward march! The _croupier_, sitting opposite to collect and pay the

bets, was shuffling the cards, before putting them in a small double

box, from which the banker was to draw them. Poor banker! The crowd,

considering his elevation something quite extraordinary, was ready to

laugh no matter what happened. As he sat down in the presidential chair,

the onlookers considered the pianist's embarrassment very amusing, and

an unrestrained laughter greeted his appearance in the seat of

authority. He asked the _croupier_ a question in a low voice, and the

same explosion of merriment was repeated. The women were the most

demonstrative as they thought their ridicule might pass over Spadoni's

head, and reach the woman who had placed him there. The musician's look

of surprise at this unexplainable hilarity only served to prolong it to

the point of a general uproar. They all laughed contagiously on seeing

his comical inability to understand the situation. But a rough voice put

an end to the merriment.

"Bank!"

It was the Greek. He had seated himself on Spadoni's right, with the

angry look of a person who is conscious of an enormous injustice and

feels it is necessary to remedy it. He could not tolerate the fact that

this grotesque person should occupy the same place in which he had been

admired every evening. Neither did he consider it admissible that a

woman should mix in affairs that belong entirely to men. He had the same

scandalized and astonished feeling of a person witnessing some

disarrangement in the rhythmic order of Nature. The world was upside

down: apprentices were trying to be masters; class distinctions were not

being respected, such nonsense must be stopped once for all. "Cards!"

The Prince trembled. Alicia's fifteen thousand francs were in danger.

That man was going to prevent the bank from continuing. If the Greek

were to win, the entire capital bet by Alicia would vanish; if he lost,

her money would be doubled. But he was sure to win. When a man as lucky

as he dared do that!...

Spadoni was overwhelmed on hearing the great man's voice. Instinctively

he turned his eyes in the direction of the Duchess, but withdrew them at

once, still more overwhelmed by her motionless features and the hard

look that seemed to strike his shoulder, as though he were to blame.

The double box, quite ready, was awaiting his reach. He dealt cards to

the right and left, and then drew his own.

The Greek showed his cards, throwing them down on the board. "Eight." A

murmur of approval arose around the table. The admirers of his good luck

rejoiced as though it were a triumph of their own. From the opposite

side he took cards which the _croupier_ offered him, and showed them

after a previous rapid examination of them. The murmur was now one of

amazement. Eight again! He was going to win. It was almost impossible

for the banker to make a higher point than that.

Spadoni, pale, his brow glazed with sweat, turned his cards over. The

public greeted them with a suppressed exclamation: "Nine!"

The very ones who had laughed at him, considered this result quite

natural. "Luck always protects the simple-minded."

And as the Greek handed over the fifteen thousand francs to the

_croupier_, who acted as a depository for the bank, the pianist bowed

modestly. A few superstitious gamblers considered that the Duchess had

showed excellent judgment in confiding her fate to this simple fellow.

Alicia's eyes sought Michael in the triple oval of heads. She smiled at

him slightly. Her features had lost the hard, fixed look with which she

had faced the exciting moment. She felt entirely sure of her triumph.

And anxious to amaze the onlookers by her imperturbable calm, she took a

golden cigarette case and an ivory mouthpiece from her purse and began

to smoke.

The pianist, after this first moment of success, played with a certain

assurance. The Duchess, sitting motionless at his back, seemed to

communicate her confidence to him. He dealt several times successfully,

and as the money in the bank was considerably increased, the cupidity of

the gamblers was aroused. Those who laughed at Spadoni's clumsiness, now

frowned with aggressive interest, taking part in the playing. Thus as

the capital increased, the stakes grew higher. Every one felt there was

going to be a great and exciting game. The banker had forgotten the

Duchess and his own humbleness. He imagined that what he was winning was

his own; he believed he had discovered the secret mentioned by Novoa,

which was going to win those fabulous sums, on which his imagination had

played so often as he wrote dozens and dozens of zeros on a piece of

paper. What a night! And to think that his friend, the scientist, was

not there to witness his triumph!

Lubimoff withdrew from the table. It hurt him to see Alicia's forced

serenity, and her manner of smoking while she watched the progress of

the gambling with feline eyes. Luck was going to change any moment. This

mad continual winning could not go on. The Greek was making an effort to

hide his anger, playing and losing like an ordinary bettor. He could

not call "bank" until a second deal began after all the cards in the

double box were exhausted. But he stuck to his original bet with the

tenacity of a bull dog, convinced that sooner or later he would succeed

in getting the better of this mockery of chance. He had more money than

Alicia and her representative, he would be able to hold out against

fate, and in the end could beat them.

The Prince went to the bar, passing the time by sipping two American

mixed drinks, which were sweet and bitter at the same time, and heavy

with alcohol. He wanted to become slightly intoxicated, in order to feel

himself on the same level with the woman who was appealing so

desperately to luck.

He found himself alone. The entire Club was huddled together in the

_baccarat_ room. Michael lamented the fact that Castro was not at the

Sporting-Club. They would have been able to chat together as they had

the afternoon that Alicia succeeded for the first time in clutching the

golden wings of the Chimera. Perhaps his absence was due to an order

from the "General". He himself had come there dragged by a woman!

A dull murmur came from the gambling room. Shortly afterwards he saw a

few of the onlookers entering the cafe, and standing at the bar to

drink. They were talking in tones of wonder and amazement. Hearing the

name of the Greek repeated several times, Michael listened. The former

had shouted "bank" at the beginning of a new hand, when the bank

contained a hundred and forty thousand francs. No one but that lucky

fellow was capable of such daring. He drew eight, but the pianist

immediately showed his cards. Nine once more. And the _croupier_ had

swept the Greek's one hundred and forty thousand into the bank. What a

night! And to think that that fool of a Spadoni was the man who was

doing such wonders!

A few women passed the door of the bar with an ill-humored air,

gesticulating among themselves. They appeared scandalized and annoyed by

the Duchess de Delille's good fortune, in spite of the fact that none of

them had lost a cent in the play. Such luck was unnatural; there must

have been some cheating. They could not say in what the cheating

consisted, but it existed undoubtedly.

Later they saw the Greek, followed by two admirers. His face was

sweating, his shirt-bosom wrinkled, and his vest had worked up, showing

his shirt between the gray silk points and his belt. He was shrugging

his shoulders scornfully. The world was upside down: there was no such

thing as logic any more. That was why the war was going so badly!

And the Greek walked away in the direction of the subterranean passage,

to return to the Hotel de Paris. He did not care to see any more of it:

it was a night for lunatics!

Neither did the Prince care to be a witness, and he remained in his

armchair, asking for another cocktail. In front of the door he could see

passing those whom another's good luck had embittered, and were fleeing,

and those who were arriving, attracted by the news of the event.

He remained alone, like a spectator who stays in the lobby of a theater

and listens to the far-off pulsing thrills of the audience. Long

intervals of silence passed. Later, there was a murmur, a sigh from the

crowd, a buzz of exclamations circulating in low tones. Was Alicia still

winning? Or was he going to see her appear like the Greek, shrugging her

shoulders at the absurdity of fate?

He asked for still another glass; and gazing at the spirals of smoke

from his cigar, he was falling asleep. Suddenly he sat up, imagining he

had received a sharp blow on his shoulders. It was a mere illusion! He

was alone. Gazing about him, he noticed the clock. It was two. He stood

up and slowly walked toward the _baccarat_ room.

The crowd had thinned out, but all those who had remained were taking a

hand in the play. The enormous sum amassed by the Bank was a temptation.

No need to fear that the winners would not be paid! Even the mere

spectators who spend the night on their feet, sharing other people's

emotion, were risking their money _louis_ by _louis_, hoping that this

burst of luck which wholly favored the bank, would change in favor of

the crowd.

The first thing that Michael saw was an enormous heap of thousand franc

notes, five thousand franc chips, and chips and bills of various

amounts. It was a fortune. Then he noticed Alicia, sitting motionless in

her seat, just as he had left her, with the expressionless face of a

caryatid. Her eyes merely looked mechanically back and forth from that

heap of wealth to the hands of the banker. She was smoking, smoking. On

a tray which a lackey had placed reverently beside the victorious woman

there was a pile of gold-tipped cigarette butts.

She seemed stupefied by her success, by the monotony of her constant

luck.

The pianist was beginning to display a certain somnolence in his looks

and in his voice. Mere winning seemed something insipid to him, after

the flight of that admirable Greek. Similarly other famous gamblers had

disappeared, as though not caring to authenticate by their presence such

an absurd run of luck. The only real competitors were some English

people from Beaulieu, whose automobiles were waiting below. This

extraordinary game interested them, as though it were some unusual

sport; they were anxious to fight against the Bank's good luck, with

British tenacity, merely for the pleasure of overcoming it. The women,

bony and distinguished looking, with very low necks and long trails to

their gowns, ejaculated "oh!" in amazement, each time the _croupier_

with his rake carried off their heavy bets, while the men drew from

inner pockets of their Tuxedos, new handfuls of bills, greeting their

defeat with metallic laughter.

In one blow Spadoni lost twenty thousand francs. Lubimoff had the fatal

presentiment of a sailor who feels beneath his feet the shudder of the

ship about to be torn open, of the soldier who feels instinctively the

beginning of his rout.

Another blow; and the bank lost again.

Michael cautiously drew near the chair occupied by Alicia.

"It is two o'clock. It is time to go home," he murmured, whispering his

words into her hair as he bent over her. "You are going to have a run of

bad luck: I can feel it coming. Tell Spadoni to get up."

She raised her eyes and looked at him in surprise. She seemed

intoxicated, unable to make out what he was saying, and showed her

refusal by a slight shake of her head. She had faith in her own luck.

Fortune saw to it that her confidence was justified. The banker was

winning again, carrying off all the sums placed on both sides of the

table. But this did not convince the Prince. He continued to feel

afraid, and his worry made him brutal.

He went over and stood at Spadoni's back, in order to drop a word to him

discreetly, while looking in another direction. "You ought to stop at

once. Call the game off. It's long after closing time anyhow."

The banker turned his face and looked up at him in order to see what

sage was dropping these words of wisdom from on high. "Oh, your

Highness!" This discovery was accompanied by a proud smile, evincing

satisfaction that Prince Lubimoff should have witnessed the greatest

deed of his life.

And he went on dealing.

Michael grew angry. This idiot, overwhelmed by his triumph, did not

understand him, and if he did understand him, he was refusing to obey.

The voice of the Prince, falling with a slow tremor, reached the ears of

the man below. "Spadoni, you incredible fool of a pianist"--here two or

three oaths in various languages.--If Spadoni did not obey him at once

he would jerk him out of the chair with a thud, and give him a kick that

would send him flying through the windows!

"The last deal!" said the banker.

And when he stopped dealing, many of the spectators breathed freely,

satisfied and relieved by the end of a game that seemed to have been

under an evil spell. Others gazed with astonishment and envy at the

enormous heap of money in the bank, as the _croupier_ put it in order,

forming bundles of bills, and straightening the various colored chips in

columns.

The sum ran from mouth to mouth: four hundred and ninety-four thousand

francs! A little more and it would have been half a million. Rarely had

such a rapid winning been seen.

Spadoni, as though he were the master of these riches, was putting them

into a little wicker basket. He was trembling with emotion. He was going

to walk through the crowd of onlookers carrying this treasure, just as

on former nights he had seen his hero pass, with the air of a conqueror.

In comparison with this what did he care for the applause he had

received as a pianist!

But eager hands snatched the basket from him.

"No! let me! let me!" It was the Duchess; it was no longer necessary any

more for her to claim indifference. That money was hers. She had become

transfigured by coming out of her eager trance-like silence. Her eyes

were shining with a triumphant gleam, her brow was pearled with sweat,

her cheeks, which were intensely pale, quivered. Carrying the basket,

with her arms held out before her, she slowly passed among the groups,

with priestly majesty, walking in the direction of the cashier's cage.

Spadoni remained beside the Prince. He, too, was perspiring, and his

features were pale with emotion.

"What a night, Your Highness! What a night!"

He looked proudly at every one, but smiled humbly at the owner of Villa

Sirena. He must make the Prince forget his refusal of moments before,

and the terrible threats which had been visited upon it.

A moment later Alicia returned to them, carrying a paper in her

hand-bag.

The pianist's enthusiasm overflowed.

"Oh, Duchess! Divine Duchess!"

He kissed one of her bare arms, then a shoulder. Alicia smiled at this

public homage. The poor pianist, no matter what he might do, could not

compromise her.

"Thanks, Spadoni, you may count on my gratitude. Go ahead and decide

what you want, a house, a yacht, or perhaps a piano with golden keys."

Michael listened in amazement. She was speaking in all sincerity: as

though her fortune had turned her mind.

But the pianist left them. He felt he must be alone. By the Duchess'

side he was obliged to share his glory, contenting himself with but a

fragment of it. And he went off to join the English people from

Beaulieu, who, proclaiming him the most interesting phenomenon they had

met in all their travels, were anxious to meet and share a bottle of

champagne with him.

Alicia and the Prince walked toward the cloak room.

"I have deposited my winnings with the cashier of the Club," she said,

showing him the receipt. "I am not going to carry so much money home at

night. To-morrow I shall come to take it to the bank. I need some one to

accompany me. Send me the Colonel: he is a fighter and must have a

revolver."

Then, remembering something important, her features took on a grave

look.

"I need not say that to-morrow we will straighten our account. Don't

think I have forgotten what I owe you: the twenty thousand francs from

the other day, and your mother's three hundred thousand. It will all be

paid."

Michael showed the astonishment which this promise caused him by a

prolonged laugh. Really, her winning had affected her brain. A piano

with golden keys for the other man, and now hundreds of thousands of

francs for him. The fortune recently acquired in two hours seemed to her

as extraordinary and limitless as her good luck itself had been.

"What I want," he added, in a low tone, ceasing to laugh, "what I want

from you, you know very well."

She stopped him with a caressing look and a discreet whisper which was

equivalent to a promise.

They descended the large stairway in the Club, and were standing in the

vestibule, she wrapped in a silk cape embroidered with gold and adorned

with rich furs, which recalled her evenings after the opera in Paris;

he, with his overcoat open and a soft silk-lined hat on his head.

The employees in the vestibule, informed of what had happened in the

gambling rooms, hurried to the glass door in a hope of a handsome tip.

"A carriage for the Duchess!"

But she wanted to walk in the silence of the night. She was numbed from

remaining motionless so long, and felt the need, like every one who

feels happy, of prolonging the joy of her triumph by a long walk.

She descended the outer stairway leaning on Michael's arm. They passed

between the drivers and the few chauffeurs who were standing about in

groups, waiting for the owners of their machines, or for possible

patrons.

They went down into the cool night air, with their eyes still tired,

from the splendor of the illumination, their skins hot from the heavy

atmosphere of the gaming rooms. They both noticed that it was a

moonlight night, with a sad, waning moon that was beginning to drop

behind the dark barrier of the Alps. The submarine menace kept the city

in darkness. At long intervals, pale lamps, the glass of which was

painted blue, cast above themselves a narrow circle of funereal light.

After a few steps, they grew accustomed to the darkness. In the street

the ground was divided into two bands, one a pale, dim white reflected

from the dying moon, the other dark, with the heavy black shade of

ebony. Instinctively, they walked along the dark sidewalk, as though

afraid of being seen. They wound along through a curving, sloping

street, the same that made its way underground by the Pompeian corridor

and which the Prince had taken a few hours before.

At their backs they could still hear the conversations of the drivers

hidden by a turn in the street, the voices of the Club servants calling

by the owners' names for the carriages; the stamping of the horses,

shaking off sleep as they waited, and the first humming of the motors

that began once more to function. Michael, who was walking along in

silence, with a desire to get away from there as soon as possible and

seek absolute solitude, on seeing her pause, was obliged to stop. She

had anticipated his thoughts: she did not care to go any farther.

"I must reward you!" she murmured. "I told you that at any event you

would gain by coming, even though I should lose. There ... there."

Her bare arms, freeing themselves from the silken cape, closed about his

shoulders, forming a tight ring; submissively her mouth sought his,

humbly abandoning itself, with a desire of giving happiness.

At the end of the street a sudden illumination flared up, making the

scene stand out against the shadows, like a flash of lightning. It was

the searchlight of an automobile. She did not move, she was not afraid

of being surprised: people were mere phantoms, without any reality

whatsoever. Nothing existed in the world at that moment save themselves

and the heap of paper bills, and pieces of ivory guarded in the steel

vault.

All his life Michael remembered that night. The clocks were doubtless

mad, turning like his head, which seemed in a whirl, following the

rhythm of sweet music. He had a feeling that they passed the same place

several times, going back and forth as they walked, without knowing what

they were doing. What difference did it make? The important thing was

that they were together. There was a moment in which they both seemed to

awaken, finding themselves seated on a bench, in the Casino Square. The

Prince was sure of it. He had looked at the clock on the facade. It was

three o'clock! It seemed impossible, he firmly believed that only a few

minutes had passed since they left the Club. And they were obliged to

walk away, annoyed by the curiosity of a civilian who was doing police

duty in war time, a member of the Prince's militia in citizen's clothes,

with a colored band on his arm and a revolver at his belt.

Once more they walked through the deserted streets or along the public

gardens, closed at that hour. Her body was thrown back, with her cape

open, she was hanging limp upon his arm which was thrown about her

waist, and she offered a tensely drawn throat and an upturned face to a

rain of kisses. She looked up at her companion, with eyes dreamy with

love. Her caresses rose slowly and voluptuously in a crescendo, as sea

flowers and stars arise from the blue depths in search of light.

Replying to the mute appeal of the eyes that were imploring from above,

she murmured several times, in a faraway voice, as though talking in a

dream:

"Yes, all you wish ... all you wish!"

More aggressive in his passion, he buried his free arm in the warm

circle of her cape, drawing her closer to him.

They walked along in a wavering course, imagining they were going in a

straight line; in certain spots they both stopped at the same time,

without knowing why. Their loitering caused a commotion in the villas.

The gardeners' dogs howled furiously at these intruders, thrusting their

noses against the iron gates. This howling sounded to the lovers like

barbaric but agreeable music, feeling benevolently toward everything

that surrounded them, they imagined themselves the lords of creation,

just as at that moment they were masters of the night. Nothing save

themselves existed in the world.

Michael, obeying an obscure impulse he did not understand, spoke to her

of her son. She would recover him at any moment now, and her happiness

would be complete.... Immediately he repented having awakened this

memory, which might break the enchantment in which they were living. But

she showed no emotion.

"Yes, I will recover him," she murmured. "I am sure of it. My good luck

will not forsake me. It was time, after suffering so long."

And once more she abandoned herself to the present moment. They were

both surprised to find themselves in the street where Villa Rosa was

located. After wandering about at random, instinctively they had finally

come there.

The Prince, emboldened by the long walk filled with kisses and

abandonment, became urgent.

"Let me come in," he murmured. "No one will see me.... I will go away

before the break of dawn."

Alicia stopped short as though suddenly awakening. It was her first

gesture of refusal during the entire night. The gardener was surely

waiting, perhaps Valeria had not yet gone to sleep. "Oh, no!"

Lubimoff, in desperation, spoke of their walking together to Villa

Sirena.

"So far!" continued Alicia, growing calmer at every moment, as though

she were entirely awakened. "Besides, that place is a barracks; a house

full of men. And that Castro who tells everything to the 'General'! No,

no, I shall never go there. What madness!"

Michael's look of sadness, his gesture of dismay, touched her. She

passed her hand over his features with a motherly caress.

"My poor boy: Don't look like that, be patient awhile. To-morrow; I

promise you that it will be to-morrow."

She, who in former times had dared the most atrocious scandal with

tranquil lack of shame, hesitated and stammered as she spoke of the next

day. She seemed like a young girl struggling between love and a fear of

compromising her future in society.

To-morrow! To-morrow he might come at three in the afternoon.... No, not

at three; four o'clock was better. Valeria surely would have gone out by

that time. She would send her maid to Nice to do some shopping; the

gardener and his wife would be busy outside the house.

"But in Heaven's name, be careful! If you can manage so that the

neighbors don't see you, it will be much better."

And the famous Prince Lubimoff visibly moved, like a boy planning his

initiation into love, and prematurely stirred by its mysteries, assented

to this counsel.

He insisted, in spite of her protests, on going with her to the gate of

the Villa.

"If you were any one else, all right! It is quite natural that a friend

should accompany me at such an hour; but you!... I am afraid that every

one will guess our secret."

It was not until the gate was closed and Alicia's adorable figure was

lost in the darkness, that the Prince could decide to go away.

He was obliged to walk the long distance to Villa Sirena, and

nevertheless the road seemed short to him. Memories and promises

accompanied him. His step had never been lighter, he seemed to be

advancing through air in which the laws of gravitation had been

lessened, on a planet wrapped in a perpetual night of springtime, in

which the air, the dim trees and the objects lost in the darkness about

him, vibrated with a poetic rhythm.

His sleep was restless, but he arose serene and in high spirits. He

remembered the errand Alicia had asked him to do. She needed a warrior,

with a revolver if possible, to escort her in transferring her fortune

from the Club vaults to the bank. The Colonel, deeply impressed at her

stroke of luck, went out to perform this task. "Poor Duchess! In the end

God always protects the good."

Michael spent the entire morning attending to his personal adornment.

His attempts at leading a simple, country life in retirement at Villa

Sirena had not made him forget the hygienic care to which he was

accustomed since his childhood. But now it was a question of something

more; he wanted to make himself look well, and heighten with exquisite

and intimate attentions the individuality of his physique, which he

suddenly felt had been rather roughly treated by time.

He had his old valet go over the wardrobe he had acquired in former

days. He remembered certain under-garments that had merited women's

praise. He was as desirous for novelty and seductiveness as a woman

dressing for a long-awaited rendezvous. Besides, he chose a suit that he

had never worn before in Monte Carlo, a new hat, and a modest tie. He

recalled her apprehension, and her request that he should enter unseen.

As he was doing all this, a sinking feeling, of lack of confidence in

himself, began to assail him. It was the feeling of uneasiness like that

of a student before examination, like that of a dramatist watching from

the wings for the fate of his play, like that of a man about to fight a

duel. He had spent so many weeks desiring without avail! He had

renounced love so long ago! And the thought of Alicia aroused in him

both eagerness and terror.

The Colonel returned about noon. He had performed his duties. He told

the news with modest brevity, as though he had just accomplished

something very important. Michael almost envied him, because he had seen

Alicia. "How is she?"

"Beautiful, as beautiful as ever. Somewhat pale, as was natural after

such an excitement as that of last night! But gay, very happy, talking

constantly about the Marquis. It is easy to guess that she feels a

strong affection for him."

They had lunch alone. Spadoni was going out in society, after his

triumph. Perhaps he was in Beaulieu with his new friends, the

Englishmen. Toledo had met Castro going into the Hotel de Paris, where

Dona Clorinda lived. Doubtless they were having lunch together to talk

over the winnings of the Duchess. Atilio had even pretended he did not

understand when the Colonel talked to him about the event. Envy, of

course! The Prince shrugged his shoulders. People were mere phantoms as

far as he was concerned, and evil passions were illusions. There were

only two realities: he and what was awaiting him.

After lunch he dressed with such attention to the minutest details that

the absurdity of it made him smile. He even changed his tie, after he

was dressed, looking for another of a quieter color. "Half-past two." He

looked at himself from head to foot in the mirror: a dark gray suit, tan

shoes, and a light felt hat with broad brim turned down to protect his

eyes from the sun. No one had ever seen Prince Lubimoff dressed in such

a manner. From a distance one might have taken him for one of the

travelers who visit the Riviera in passing, and come to make the

acquaintance of roulette at Monte Carlo in an afternoon, and go away

again immediately.

Three o'clock! He left Villa Sirena. It was a long way and he wanted to

walk it. The exercise would fortify his will and dispel the doubt which

was assailing him anew. He thought of how he had performed the same

supreme intimate act so many times in former years, as something

ordinary and almost mechanical. His suspicious isolation during the last

few months seemed to have numbed him. He felt the lack of confidence of

an athlete who has left off exercising and doubts whether he can summon

all his former strength again. Fear at the mere idea of a failure

restored his confidence. Such a thing was impossible! Forward march!

On reaching Monte Carlo, he climbed the long stone steps as far as the

streets of Beausoleil. He considered it advisable to go out of his way

thus to carry out in the fullest detail the counsels of prudence that

Alicia had given him.

He planned to enter her street from above, where there were no houses.

In this way he would avoid any of her neighbors who at that hour might

be going down town.

Above the building plots where houses were going up and the stairways

which were winding down the slope, he could overlook a large expanse of

sea, and on the shore the groves of the gardens, with a bird's-eye view

of the huge mass of the Casino, with its green tiles and the yellow

cupolas of its halls, the wide square, the little circular garden of the

"Camembert," and around it numerous people the size of ants.

The Prince had a feeling of pity for those pigmies. Unhappy men! They

were going to gamble, to shut themselves up between four walls, under

artificial light, with no other dreams than those of money. For him

something better was awaiting; for a few hours he was going to

experience the one interesting intoxication of life. Then he laughed

with pity at a certain lunatic, his double, who had tried to found a

club group of "women's enemies." Imagine hating love, and trying to live

without women; poor Prince Lubimoff!

It was now four o'clock. Passing among tiny gardens which seemed miles

away from a crowded city, he entered Alicia's street. The red roof of

Villa Rosa was peeping out from among the trees, almost at his feet. He

kept on descending. His legs trembled slightly, and he stopped for a

moment to regain his poise, raising his hand to his breast. Rounding a

bend, all of the street that was built up appeared, straight and gently

sloping down to where it joined one of the avenues of Monte Carlo.

No one was in sight, and he hastened to slip into Villa Rosa before any

neighbors appeared. He passed the gardens rapidly, with the air of a man

afraid of being late at a game of cards. He found the gate half open. It

was a good sign: Alicia had thought of facilitating his entry.

He crossed the little garden, and thought he saw the frightened face of

the gardener, peeping over some shrubbery for a moment, then hiding

again precipitously. There was something strange about that man's

curiosity and his look of fear. But he was hurrying away, and the Prince

was pleased at his discretion.

With a flutter of emotion, he climbed the four steps of the door. With

each one there awoke in his imagination a fresh dream picture, softly

rose-colored like women's flesh, a sweet unconfessable vision which

suddenly brought back his past. More with his memory than with his sense

of smell, he perceived in the atmosphere a well-known perfume, her

perfume. Everything seemed to be whirling about him with hazy contours.

There was a buzzing in his ears; desire electrified him drawing his

muscles taut, just as in his happiest days. And with the bearing of a

conqueror, he pushed open the door, which was unlocked.

A woman came forward to meet him in the vestibule, a woman whose

presence caused him to draw back.

Valeria! What was she doing there? What sort of a farce was this?

The young woman tried to speak, and he, too, wished to speak at the same

time. But neither was able.

Another woman appeared, opening the door abruptly. It was Alicia, with

her clothes in disorder and her hair wildly streaming. On seeing the

Prince, she raised her arms and came forward, impetuous and silent, as

though to embrace him. At last!... What did he care if Valeria were

present: he did not see her. On the other hand, Alicia seemed different

to him; taller than ever, and paler, with eyes that suddenly inspired

fear.

Her arms fell about him, and immediately her whole body seemed to

totter, bereft of strength. He felt a panting breast against his own;

her arms were as cold as those of a corpse; a rain of hot tears began to

bathe his neck.

"Michael! Michael!" Alicia groaned.

It was all she could say. She was choking, the sobs catching in her

throat as though a strangling lump were fixed within it.

The Prince was obliged to summon all his strength to sustain the inert

body. A voice sounded in his ear, with the same low monotonous tone that

is heard in a chamber of death.

It was that of Valeria, who was also weeping, feeling afresh the

contagion of tears.

"He is dead! He died a month ago!"

And she showed him a little yellow paper that had arrived half an hour

before: a telegram from Madrid.