VIII

"It is a triumph to seize an advantage from a German!" whispered the

Frenchwoman, beginning to look flushed and expectant. "You see that

woman in the chair you are touching? She was one of the greatest

actresses of the world, Madame Rachel Berenger. Now she is too old and

large to act, so she lives in a beautiful villa, across the Italian

frontier. She is always coming to Monte Carlo to do this."

"This" was scattering gold pieces all over the table, as if she were

sowing peas, then changing her mind about them, and reaching wildly out

to place them somewhere else. She was dressed in deep mourning, and had

a very white face which might once have been beautiful. Now she was like

a dissipated Greek statue draped in black.

"Faites vos jeux, Messieurs," said one of the six extraordinarily

respectable and intelligent-looking men who Mary saw at a glance were

employés of the Casino. They were in neat black clothes, with black

neckties. Peter had told her that the four who spun the roulette wheel

and paid the players were called croupiers, and that they were allowed

to have no pockets in the clothes they wore when at work, lest they

should be tempted to secrete money. But perhaps this was a fable. And

there was so much money! In all her life Mary had not seen as much money

as lay on this one expanse of green baize.

The man who called on the gamblers to begin staking put out his hand to

a large wheel sunk into the middle of the oblong table. This wheel was

the same, in immensely exaggerated form, as the toy with which the

Dauntreys had played in the train. It was a big disc of shiny metal, set

in a shallow well, rimmed with rosewood. All around its edge went a row

of little pockets, each coloured alternately red and black. The expanse

of green baize was marked off with yellow lines into squares, numbered

with yellow figures. The two lengths of yellow patterns going outward

from the wheel were facsimiles of each other, and only sixteen players

could sit round the table, but eight or ten times that number crowded in

double or treble ranks behind the seated ones. The high chairs of the

two inspectors who sat opposite one another were usurped by tired women

who leaned against them, or tried to perch on the edges; and as the

croupier leaned forward to turn the wheel, arms were stretched out

everywhere, scrabbling like spiders' legs, staking money selected from

piles of notes or gold and silver.

The statuelike woman in black dashed on twenty or thirty louis, some on

numbers, some on a red lozenge, some on the words _Pair_ and _Manque_.

"She cannot possibly win," mumbled Madame d'Ambre. "She has lost her

head and staked on so many chances that if one wins she must lose much

more on the others. It is absurd. Watch her this time, and next spin I

will tell you what to do for yourself."

The croupier had picked a little ivory ball out of one of the pockets

before setting the wheel in motion. Then, as it began to revolve, with a

deft turn of the wrist he launched the ball in a whizzing rush along a

narrow shelf inside the rosewood rim, and in a direction contrary to the

whirl of the disc.

For several seconds, which seemed long and tense to Mary, the wheel

revolved, the ivory ball dashing wildly around until the croupier

proclaimed in his calm, impersonal voice: "Rien ne va plus!" Some people

reluctantly ceased their feverish staking of louis, notes, and

five-franc pieces, but others dashed on money up to the last instant.

The wheel slackened speed; the ball lost momentum, and, rolling down the

slope, struck one of a lozenge-shaped row of obstacles. It rebounded,

almost sprang out of the wheel, hesitated over a pocket, and leaped into

the next, where it lay still.

"Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe," announced the calm voice.

"Twenty-four! My age and my ticket number! I meant to stake on it!" Mary

cried out aloud in her excitement. "Now it is too late."

Her regret was so keen as to be agonizing. It seemed that a serious

misfortune had befallen her. Something in her head was going round with

the ball. She felt as if she ought to have won all the money lying

there on the table, as if she had a right to it.

People who had won and were having their winnings paid to them were too

busy to notice what went on behind their backs; but some of those who

had lost and had nothing to do till the time to stake again, tittered

faintly and craned their heads round to look at the girl who was almost

crying because she had not staked on twenty-four, her age. But Mary did

not realize that she was the object of any one's attention, for the

statuelike woman in black was shrilly insisting that she had had the

maximum, nine louis, on the number 24. "_En plein_, I tell you, _en

plein_!"

"But no, excuse me, Madame, you had money on black and the second dozen,

on pair, and on the _carré_ of twenty-four; but nothing on the number

itself. Your maximum was on twenty-six," the croupier explained firmly.

"I tell you it was on twenty-four!" shrieked the actress.

"Madame is mistaken. You staked in so many different places, it is

impossible for you to remember."

"It is still more impossible for you. Do you intend to pay me?"

"But certainly, for everything you won."

"And the maximum on twenty-four?"

"Not that, Madame."

"I will complain to the management!"

"As Madame pleases."

"I will stop the game till I am paid!"

One of the two inspectors left his high chair, came to the enraged lady

and attempted to soothe her. She looked magnificent in her passion, ten

years having fallen like a mask from the marble face.

The croupier, who had paid her for several bets won, attempted to go on

with his duties. People, some delighting in the "row," others annoyed at

the delay, placed their stakes, but she, a lioness at bay, stared

furiously without putting a piece on the table. As the disc turned,

however, she pounced. She threw a louis into the wheel. But the

croupier, without changing countenance, took out the coin, pushed it

back to her, and began spinning again. In went another louis and again

the croupier stopped the wheel. Voices rose in complaint: Russian

voices, German voices, English voices. "Is this going on all night?"

"Pay Madame," said one of the inspectors.

Quietly and with incredible quickness nine times thirty-five louis were

counted out, payment for a maximum on a number. As the croupier pushed

the notes and gold across the table, a beautiful white hand, blazing

with rings, thrust it proudly back again. "That is all I wanted," the

actress said, with the air of Lady Macbeth. "The acknowledgment that I

was right. Keep the money."

The croupier shrugged his shoulders, and spun the wheel, with a bored

air.

"Faites vos jeux, Messieurs."

"Shall I put something for you on twenty-four?" hastily asked Madame

d'Ambre.

"But it has just come."

"It may come again. Often a number repeats. Shall I or not? An instant,

and it will be too late."

With her heart in her throat, Mary handed the Frenchwoman a

hundred-franc note crushed in a ball. Madame d'Ambre asked a croupier

near where she stood to stake the money. He did so, just in time. The

ball slipped into the pocket of number 21. "Too bad! But better luck

next time. Will you try a simple chance, red or black, for instance? Or

one of the dozens?"

"No, twenty-four again," answered a voice that Mary hardly knew as her

own. "I must!" With a trembling hand, she gave her friend nine louis.

"That's the maximum for a number, you said," she faltered. "Please put

it on."

"But all your money will soon be gone at this rate. A louis would bring

you thirty-five----"

"No, no, the maximum!"

Madame d'Ambre, aided by her croupier-neighbour, obeyed.

A strange golden haze floated before Mary's eyes. She could not see

through it. She tried to tell herself, as the big wheel spun, that this

was not important at all; that it did not really matter what happened:

yet something inside her said, "It's the most important thing in the

world, to win, to win, to make all these people envy you. It isn't the

money, it's the joy, the triumph, the ecstasy."

The ball dropped. Mary could not look, could not have seen if she had

looked: but her whole soul listened for the croupier's announcement.

"Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe."

She trembled all over, as if she were going to fall. She could hardly

believe that she had heard aright, until Madame d'Ambre exclaimed close

to her ear: "You have won! I told you that I would bring you luck!"

The actress, petulant with persistent ill fortune, got up muttering, and

pushed back her chair. Mechanically Mary dropped into it. A pile of

money, notes and gold, was moved toward her by the croupier's rake.

People were staring. She was young and beautiful, and evidently half

fainting with excitement. Besides, she had won a large sum. It was

always a good thing to win on a number _en plein_. But to win the

maximum on a number! That somehow did not often happen except to Russian

grand dukes and American millionaires.

Mary, confused, and quivering like a struck violin, took her winnings,

but, supposing all the money on her side of the table to be hers also,

earned by the nine louis, began gayly to gather in with small,

white-gloved hands everything within reach.

A cry of protest went up, half laughing, half indignant. Groups of

non-players who had been chatting or strolling round the rooms hurried

to the table to see "what was the row," any sensation, big or small,

being an event to receive thankfully.

"Mais, Mademoiselle!"

The small, predatory hands were arrested: quickly it was explained that

when a player wins he has not won all the money on the table. There are

others also in luck. Mary, abashed, but too excited to be deeply shamed,

apologized in pretty French. Those she would unwittingly have robbed

were disarmed by soft eyes and the appeal of dimples. Even hawklike old

women ceased to glare. "It is her first séance," was the forgiving

whisper. The neat piles of money which she had reduced to ruin and

confusion were sorted out again between croupiers and players, while the

game obligingly waited. If the offender had been old and dowdy, every

one would have grumbled angrily at the bother and delay, but as it was,

men grinned and women were tolerant. After three minutes' halt play was

ready to begin again.

"Better come away now, Mademoiselle. It is I who counsel you," advised

Madame d'Ambre. "It is not well to trust such luck too far. Or else,

play with a few five-franc pieces to amuse yourself. If you win, so much

to the good. If you lose, what matter? You have still the _gros lot_."

"I couldn't do that. I must trust my luck. I am going on. I shall play

on twenty-four again. I wish there were more ways than one for me to

back it, and I would," Mary cried, her cheeks red bonfires of

excitement.

Madame d'Ambre shrugged her thin shoulders, seeing her own profits

diminished. But, a woman of the world, she knew when it was useless to

protest. And perhaps this wild amateur was indeed inspired. "There are

seven ways in which to back your number for one spin," she said, carried

away a little by Mary's spirit. "_En plein_--that is, full on the number

as before; _à cheval_--the number and its neighbour; your own and two

others--_transversale plain_; the _carré_--four in a square; six--the

_transversale simple_: the dozen in which your number is; its column;

also the colour. Twenty-four is black. If your number loses, you may win

on something else."

"Very well. Maximums on all, please."

"Impossible! You may not have money enough. On other chances the

maximums are much larger."

Mary, confused and fearful of being too late, did not stop to reflect or

argue. "Nine louis on each of the chances, then," she panted.

Madame d'Ambre, reflecting selfishly that even if all stakes lost there

would still be a good sum to divide from the last winnings, began

placing money in desperate haste, the croupier delaying for an instant

his _rien ne va plus_, while one of his fellows helped in putting on the

gold. Others, who had finished staking over each other's hats and

shoulders, and the whole ring of watchers outside, awaited the decision

of Mary's destiny with almost as keen interest as if it were their own.

"Vingt-quatre, noir, pair et passe."

A murmur rose, and went to Mary's head like wine. This seemed a miracle,

performed for her. Unconscious of irreverence, she thought that surely

the saints had worked this wonder. She forgot that, because she won,

others must lose.

"It is marvellous! But these blessed amateurs! It is always they who

have the great luck. Twice running--and after twenty-four had been spun

just before twenty-one."

The numbers were all marked in their right colours with roulette pencils

on little cards, or in well-kept notebooks by the players. Every one

knew what had "come out" at the table for many past coups.

"If you'll back twenty-four again, I'll go on it, too," said, in

English, a young man in the chair at Mary's right. He was a brown,

well-groomed, clean-shaven youth, whose hair was so light that it looked

straw-coloured in contrast with his sunburnt skin. "It's _en chaleur_,

as they say of numbers when they keep coming up. It may come a third

time running. I've seen it happen. Five repetitions is the record. What

do you say?"

"I meant to play twenty-four again, anyway," Mary answered, with the

peculiar soft obstinacy which had opened the gates of Saint

Ursula-of-the-Lake and brought her to Monte Carlo.

"You are plucky!"

"This time, surely, I've money enough for maximums on everything," Mary

said to the Frenchwoman behind her, who was now becoming superstitious

concerning the luck of her _petite dinde_.

Without protest, Madame d'Ambre selected from the piles of gold and

notes now ranged in front of Mary the stakes indicated, and, with a hand

not quite steady, placed those within her reach. The neighbouring

croupier, faintly smiling, obligingly did the rest, noting without

surprise that many players were sportingly, yet timidly, risking fat

five-franc pieces on the amateur's number. It was the sort of thing they

generally did, the _imbeciles_, when a player was having a sensational

run of luck. But certainly there was something magnetic and fatal about

this pretty young woman, who was new to the game and the place,

something curiously inspiring. Not only he as well as the gamblers felt

it, but the croupier at the wheel. The spinner felt in his bones that

whether he wished it or not he was certain to spin a third twenty-four.

A round of applause went up from perhaps fifty pairs of hands when the

ball was seen to lie once more in the pocket numbered 24. Mary,

realizing that the applause was meant for her, felt like a spirit

released from its body. She was a goddess on a pinnacle. This was life:

the wine of life. It was not the money she thought of. All the gold and

paper which had suddenly become hers was nothing in itself, but what it

represented was victory extending over the forces of nature. This

mysterious game, whose next turn none could foretell, seemed to be

yielding its secret to her. She had the conviction that Something was

telling her what to do, what would happen with the spin of the wheel.

It would be madness and a kind of vile ingratitude to stop now, while

the Something was there.

Hearing the applause, which meant a coup of uncommon interest, people

came hurrying from every direction, some even running, with a peculiar

step which kept them from slipping on the polished floor. Many had

learned this from long practice in running in with the early gamblers at

the morning opening of the Casino, when it is "first come, first

served," at the chairs.

Those who had been watching the play at other tables, or those who had

been losing, joined the rush.

"What is she going to do now, _cette petite sorcière_?" was the

question. Hearing it, Mary was flattered to a higher pitch of excitement

and self-confidence. She must, she must do something to justify

everybody's expectation. The Casino was hers, and there was no world

outside--nothing but this magic place of golden light and golden coins.

"What next?" inquired Madame d'Ambre, late mentor, now courtier.

"I'll do whatever you do," said the brown young man, who was English or

American.

She looked at the disc as a seeress looks at a crystal. The spinner had

his hand on the cross-piece of metal which turns the wheel.

"What does that 0 mean, on the little brown square between the red and

black numbers?" she asked her neighbour gravely.

"That's what they call 'zero.' You can bet on it like any number; but

when it comes, if you're not on it, all your stakes go--biff!--except on

the simple chances, when you are put in 'prison,' or else you can take

back half. Lots of people like zero better than anything, because they

think the croupiers try to spin it, for the good of the bank. It's

called _l'ami de la maison_."

"How nice and friendly," said Mary. "I'll put money on zero. What's the

maximum?"

"The same as on the other numbers _en plein_: nine louis."

"Then I'll have that on zero," said Mary.

Many players followed her lead, and every one was calling out "zero" and

pushing or throwing coins to the croupiers to be staked on that chance.

"Zero!"

Mary was paid nine times thirty-five louis, six thousand three hundred

francs, and the others who, superstitiously following her lead, had

risked five-franc pieces and louis on _l'ami de la maison_, shared her

luck in different degrees.

"Zero once more, please, Madame," said Mary to her companion.

"But no! impossible! It will be something else."

"Perhaps. Still--I will try."

She was right. Zero came again, followed by louder rounds of applause.

By this time the whole Casino knew what was going on. A glorified

amateur, an English girl, was winning maximums on numbers again and

again, in succession, at the table nearest the wall-portrait of the

architect, in the Salle Schmidt. Non-players or discouraged losers bore

down upon the "architect's table," running even from the distant

trente-et-quarante room.

The story sounded rather like a fairy tale, but the enormous crowd round

the centre of interest, and the comparatively slack business being done

at other tables, proved its truth. None of the newcomers, even the

tallest, could see, but they could hear, and they could feel the thrill

from the inner circle.

"And now, Mademoiselle? What will you do? Remember, your luck can't go

on forever," murmured Madame d'Ambre, anxious to divide the spoil, which

might yet vanish like fairy gold.

"I--I will take twenty-four again, and everything round it."

Many players who had money left, and could reach to put on their stakes,

also chose twenty-four. And twenty-four came up. This was historic! No

one but the Grand Duke Michael and the few famous punters of the world

had such persistent and consecutive luck.

A chef de table in a high chair stood up and unobtrusively beckoned a

footman hovering on the far fringe of the crowd. Three minutes later,

with equal unobtrusiveness, more money was brought, lest the supply of

the table should run low. Few noticed, or knew that anything unusual had

happened, with the exception of the play; but Madame d'Ambre had been

hoping for and expecting something of the sort.

"They are afraid you will break the bank," she said, in a stage-whisper

not meant to be wasted. Those near her who understood French glanced up

quickly. Croupiers smiled and said nothing. A murmur went round the

table, and flowed like the rippling circles from a stone dropped in a

pond, to the crowd which ringed it in.

"What do you mean?" asked Mary.

"Oh, the bank does not really break! They do not even stop play in these

days. But they send for more money lest it be needed. Ah, the colossal

compliment!"

The pride in Mary's heart was like a stab of pain, almost unbearable in

its intensity. But suddenly, as if the current of her thought had been

broken, her inspiration seemed gone. The Something was no longer there,

telling her where to stake. She wished to play again, but felt at sea,

without a rudder. Her unconscious vanity rebelled against risking loss

at this table of which she had been the queen, the idol.

She rose, pale and suddenly tired. "I won't play any more," she said, in

a little voice, like a child's.

"Oh, why?" asked the young man with the straw-coloured hair.

"I don't know why," she answered. "Only I don't want to."

"Your money!" exclaimed Madame d'Ambre. "We must have all the gold put

into _mille_ notes, or you cannot carry it."

For an instant Mary had forgotten the money and the necessity of taking

it away, but Madame d'Ambre, who had now firmly identified her own

interests with those of her protégée, attended to the practical duties

of the partnership. She was somewhat disagreeably conscious that the

young man's eyes were fixed upon her as she collected her friend's

enormous winnings. As people made way for the Frenchwoman and her

starlike companion to pass, this man gathered up his small store of gold

and silver, and followed. On the outskirts of the crowd stood the

Dauntreys and their party. Mary and Madame d'Ambre passed close to them,

but the heroine of the moment was too intensely excited to recognize any

one. She walked as if on air, her hands full of notes, some of which she

was stuffing into her gold-beaded bag.

"Why, it's the girl in the train who said she was going to Florence,"

exclaimed Dodo Wardropp. "Can she be the one who's made the sensation?"

"Yes, it's she," said Lady Dauntrey. "See how they're looking at her,

and pointing her out. I wonder if it's true she's won thousands of

pounds?"

No one answered. Lord Dauntrey had slipped quietly away from the others,

and found a place at a table near enough to play over some one's head.

This was the first time he had found a chance to test his new system,

except on the toy roulette wheel. He began staking five-franc pieces,

and writing down notes in a small book. The bored look was burned out of

his weary eyes. They brightened, and a more healthful colour slowly

drove away his unnatural paleness.

The others, who had been playing in the new rooms, did not follow or

look for him. They stared at every one who seemed worth staring at. The

two Americans and Dodo expected Lady Dauntrey to know everybody. It was

for this, partly, that they were paying large sums to her, and they felt

a depressed need of getting their money's worth. So far the arrangements

for their comfort at the Villa Bella Vista were disappointing. Still,

two young men of title were there, and that was something, although one

of them was only an Austrian count, and the other no better than a

baronet. But Lord Dauntrey promised for to-morrow morning Dom Ferdinand

de Trevanna, the Pretender to an historic throne.

Dodo, according to Miss Collis, had "grabbed" the English baronet, and

left her only the Austrian count, who looked younger than any man could

really be, and had a wasp-waist which, when he bowed--as he did

irritatingly often--seemed liable to snap in two. It was if anything

more slender than her own, and she disliked him for it. Lady Dauntrey

had Mrs. Collis on her hands, and looked sombrely discontented. But she

waked up at sight of Mary. The long, pale eyes between black fringes

followed the blue and silver-gold figure with silent interest. Then the

handsome face became subtle and greedy.

As Mary was piloted outside the crowd by Madame d'Ambre, four young

women separated themselves hastily from the group round the table, and

bore down upon the pair. They were young, or else clinging desperately

to the ragged edges of their youth, and all four were dressed in clothes

which had been beautiful. They knew Madame d'Ambre, knew her very well

indeed, for they called her "Madeleine" or "Chère Lena." Nevertheless,

she did not appear pleased to see them.

"Bon soir, mes amies," she said evasively, and would have passed on,

but, laughingly, they stopped her. One, who had a marvellous complexion,

large black eyes, and bright golden hair, exclaimed, with a charming

Parisian accent, that they could not let their Madeleine leave them like

that. They had been waiting to congratulate her friend.

"We pray that thou wilt introduce us, dear one," the spokeswoman

suggested. "Surely Mademoiselle wishes to add to her happiness by making

others happy?" She turned a swimming gaze upon Mary. "Figure to

yourself, Mademoiselle; we are unlucky; four companions in misery. It is

our bad luck which has united us. Our jewels are all pawned. Not one of

us has eaten anything since the first _déjeuner_. And we have a hunger!"

Mary stared, disconcerted by this tale of misfortune suddenly flung at

her head, and scarcely sure if it were not a practical joke. The four

young women were so charmingly dressed, their hair was so carefully

waved, their complexions so pink and white, that it was impossible to

believe in their poverty. Besides, they could evidently afford perfume,

so luscious that it must be expensive. Mary thought that they smelled

very good; then, a little too good; then, far, far too good, and at last

almost unbearable.

"You are joking," she said, timidly.

"Indeed we are not," replied another of the group, a red-haired girl

with brown, almond-shaped eyes. "We so hope that you will be an angel,

and invite us all to supper."

"What nonsense, Clotilde!" exclaimed Madame d'Ambre. "We have already an

engagement for supper."

"Ah, then surely, Mademoiselle, you will share your luck with us in some

way? Otherwise, you can't hope to keep it."

"I should be glad to share it," Mary said, warmly. "What can I do?"

The red-haired lady broke into gestures. "She who has won a fortune asks

us who have nothing what she can do for us? How she is amusing, this

pretty English one!"

"Would you--might I--that is----" Mary began to stammer.

"We would--you might!" Clotilde finished for her, laughing.

"I wonder you have not more pride!" Madame d'Ambre reproached the four,

her white-rose cheeks flushing with annoyance.

"Pride does not buy us supper, or new hats," the girl with golden hair

reminded her.

"Oh, please take these, and do whatever you like with them," Mary said

hastily, her voice quivering with shyness and compassion. She began

dealing out her thousand-franc notes, and did not stop until she had

given one to each of the four.

It was at this moment that Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, unable to

resist his desire to follow Mary to the Casino, came within sight of

her. This was the picture he saw: the strikingly dressed girl,

bright-eyed, carmine-cheeked, feverishly distributing notes to a crowd

of young women more showily dressed than herself.

He turned away instantly, chilled and disgusted.