Dauntrey walked with his head down, his hat pulled over his eyes and his
hands in his pockets. Mary noticed that, though the wind was the coldest
she had known at Monte Carlo, he wore no overcoat. She wondered if even
that had been taken from him by the people to whom he owed money. Once
he looked back lingeringly. "Eve must have gone to sit down," he said;
and then, in shamed apology, "the poor girl is almost mad, and so am I.
You mustn't think too much of what passed between us. We--we love each
other, and come what may I believe we always will."
"I'm certain of that," Mary answered, in a warm voice which came from
her heart.
They had walked on for a moment or two in silence, when Dauntrey asked
abruptly: "Do you know what you're letting yourself in for?"
"Not quite," Mary admitted. "But whatever it is, I don't think I shall
much mind if I can help you."
"I believe you really can help," he assured her. "I'm going to apply for
what's called the _viatique_. It's a sum of money the Casino people
grant to--to us broken gamblers, if we can prove that we've lost a lot.
It's a way of getting rid of us, without too much trouble to themselves
or--as my wife said--danger of scandal. They'll give a ticket second
class, to take you home if you're dead broke, even if your home's as far
off as Bombay, and enough money to pay for your food on the journey.
It's very decent of them--generous, considering they don't ask you to
come here and gamble, and that they always play fair. But a railway
ticket and a few louis in my pocket are no good in my case. I've Eve to
think of--and some sort of a future, God help me! She hopes because I
happen to have a title which used to be of some importance I may bluff
them into giving me a good lump sum. I'm afraid there isn't much in
that. Nobody ever heard of their offering more than two thousand francs,
so far as I know, and that was exceptional, a classic sort of case. But
it may be they'll be influenced by you. Every one knows you're going to
marry the Duke di Rienzi's son. And you've been rather a famous gambler.
You're of some importance. Heaven knows I'm not! If I get something
worth what I have to go through, you'll be the one to thank--to say
nothing of the moral support. I've gone to pieces so the last few days,
I doubt if I could have faced this alone."
They came to the Casino, and Mary was challenged by one of the
doorkeepers because of her bag. He reminded her politely that no one was
allowed to go in with a parcel of any description. "Ever since a lady
tried to blow us all up with a bomb in a paper package," he added,
smiling.
"I'll leave my bag in the _vestiaire_," Mary promised; and being well
known she was allowed to pass.
The attendant in whose care she indifferently placed the locked
jewel-case had no idea that he guarded valuables worth two thousand
pounds or more. The hand-bag had a modest air of containing a few pretty
trifles for a toilet in a motor car.
Mary's heart had begun to beat fast, for Lord Dauntrey's face was so
pale and rigid that she realized his dread of an ordeal and began to
share it. It was many days since she had entered the Casino. The atrium,
once so familiar, almost dear to her eyes, looked strange. It was odd to
find there the same faces she had often seen before. She felt as if
years had passed since she was one of those who eagerly frequented this
place. What if Vanno could see her now? she thought. He would not like
to have her come to the Casino with Lord Dauntrey, yet if she could make
him understand all, she told herself that he would not be angry. Angelo
might be, and even unforgiving, but not Vanno.
"Where must we go to ask for the _viatique_?" she inquired of Dauntrey
in a low voice, looking anxiously at the different closed doors, behind
which any mystery might hide, for few ever saw them open.
"We have to go through the Salle Schmidt," he answered doggedly.
That seemed worse than she had thought, but she said nothing. She found
herself suddenly missing Hannaford, and wishing that his calm face with
its black bandage might appear among all these faces that meant nothing
to her. If he were here he would stand by them, or perhaps go alone with
Lord Dauntrey in order to spare her. He had always tried to save her
from everything disagreeable, from the very beginning of their
friendship until its end.
The mellow golden light in the great gaming room, and the somnolent
musky scent which she had called the "smell of money," seized upon
Mary's imagination with renewed vividness, even as on the first night
when as a stranger she timidly yet eagerly entered the Casino. She felt
again the powerful influence of the place, but in a different way. The
pleasant, kindly animal to which she had likened the Casino was now a
mighty monster, who must be approached with caution and even fear, whose
gentle, feline purring was the purr of a tiger sitting with claws in
sheath. How the great golden beast could strike and tear sometimes, the
desperate face of her companion told. Mary feared for his sake that
people might read the lines of misery, and whisper that here was one of
Monte Carlo's wrecks.
She had often noticed in the gilded Salle Schmidt those four long
mirrors in the corners, which could only be known as doors when some
inspector or other functionary pressed his foot on a trigger level with
the floor in front of one of them. When this was done, a mirror would
instantly move so promptly that Mary had named those doors the "open
sesames."
Now, when she had walked with Dauntrey to the farthest door on the
right-hand side of the room, he stopped. Near by stood two blue-coated,
gold-braided Casino footmen, as if keeping guard; and suddenly Mary
remembered that these or other footmen were always hovering at that
spot. Often, too, she had seen shamed and sad-looking men and women
sitting dejectedly on the leather cushioned seat by the side of the
door. She had never thought about them particularly, but in this moment
of enlightenment she guessed why they haunted this corner, like starved
birds waiting in the hope of crumbs. She was thankful to see that the
seat was deserted. It would have been terrible to be one of those who
had to wait while everybody who knew the secret of the door passed by
and saw, and stared curiously or pityingly. She began to understand how
it was that Eve's shattered nerves had forbidden her to come and "stand
by" Lord Dauntrey.
Leaving the girl a pace or two behind, he squared his shoulders and went
up to the footmen. Mary could not hear what he said, but the Casino
servant's answer was distinctly audible. It was politely spoken, yet
there was, or seemed to be, in the man's manner a slight indifference,
and even disdain, which would not have been there in addressing a
successful, not a broken, gambler.
"Monsieur is engaged at present, but will be free in a few moments," she
heard.
Dauntrey came quickly back to her, as to a refuge. The eyes of both
footmen rested upon her for an instant. They were almost, but not quite,
expressionless. Under control yet visible was surprise and animal
curiosity. The men knew Miss Grant by sight and reputation as "one of
the lucky ones," and she felt that they were wondering if she too had
lost all, and come whining to the "management" for a _viatique_.
"For heaven's sake let's stand out of the way," Dauntrey whispered, "so
every one won't know what we're after." They moved to a little distance,
and Lord Dauntrey began trying to make conversation, but could think of
nothing to say. Long pauses fell. Both tried not to look at the mirror
door, but their eyes were drawn there, as if by an unseen power behind
it. They could see themselves and each other in the glass. Mary thought
that no one could help noticing how anxious and strained were their
faces.
After some moments, which seemed long, the door opened without sound and
a woman appeared. She hung her head, and her face was concealed with a
veil such as Princess Della Robbia had worn when she came to Rose
Winter's flat. A footman with a yellow paper in his hand preceded the
drooping figure, steering toward the outer door of the Salle Schmidt, as
if going to the atrium. He had a peculiarly stolid air, as if performing
a business duty to which he was so used that he could do it very well
while other matters engaged his thoughts.
"_She's_ got something, anyhow," mumbled Lord Dauntrey, in a sickly
voice. "Come along, please. It's our turn now."
He identified Mary with his own interests, as if they were intimately
hers. Politely, or perhaps in cowardice, he stood aside to let her go
before him. Immediately and without noise the door was closed behind
them.
Mary's hands were cold. A little pulse was beating in her throat, and
its throbbing made her feel slightly sick. She looked up, wide-eyed,
into the face of a man who had dismissed the veiled woman, and stood
waiting to receive them.
He was spare, elderly, black-coated, almost absurdly respectable
looking, with his gray beard and mild gaze behind gold-rimmed pince-nez.
The small bare room with its plain desk and two or three chairs made a
bleak background for the neat figure of the man. The austerity of the
closet-like enclosure, in contrast with the magnificence outside, seemed
meant as a warning to let petitions be brief, to the point, and above
all strictly within the bounds of reason.
"What do you wish me to do for you?" As he asked this question, with
cool civility, the benevolent yet cautious eyes peered through their
glass screen at Mary; and the thought sprang into her mind that this
elderly man of commonplace appearance had perhaps listened to more
harrowing stories of human misery and ruin than any other person in the
world. Even the most popular father confessor of the church could
scarcely have heard as many agonizing appeals. He must be able to
discriminate between truth and falsehood, to read faces and judge
voices, for no doubt, as Mary guessed, people must often come to him
swearing they had lost many thousands of francs, when in reality their
losses amounted only to a few hundreds.
Dauntrey, whose hand was unsteady, held out his season card of admission
to the Casino. "I suppose you know who I am," he said.
The man in the black coat looked at the name on the card, and inclined
his head slightly as if in affirmation.
"I've lost all I had in the world," Dauntrey went on in a dead voice,
"and all my wife had. I've been here since the beginning of December and
had the most cursed luck. I--Miss Grant will bear me out. She was
staying at our house. You've seen her before no doubt. One of your lucky
ones. You--you'll have to do something decent for me. Unfortunately I've
got into debt--my rent--and tradesmen. No good having a scandal. You've
had a lot out of me--close on ten thousand pounds. You can afford to
give me back 10 per cent., can't you?"
The official's face hardened. He looked a man who could be obdurate as
well as benevolent. "I regret," he replied in English, "that it is
impossible to give any such sum. Nothing like it has ever been granted,
not even to those who have lost great fortunes. If the Casino made such
presents it would cease to exist. And I cannot help thinking that my
lord in excitement exaggerates his losses. I have heard that he has lost
not more than four thousand pounds, and that three fourths of that sum
belonged to his friends, for whom he kindly played. In my lord's case,
two first-class tickets to London----"
"Of no use whatever," Dauntrey broke in sharply. "What would you have me
do when my wife and I get to England without a penny?"
"After all, that is your lordship's affair."
Dauntrey's face crimsoned, and the veins stood out in his temples. Then
the red faded, leaving him yellow pale.
"It will be your affair if I kill myself here, as I shall be driven to
do if you won't help me. My name will cause some little sensation after
I'm dead, if it never made any stir while I lived."
"Couldn't the Casino spare Lord Dauntrey five hundred pounds, at least?"
Mary begged, stumbling to the rescue. "It would be so dreadful for
everybody concerned if--if--anything happened."
"The administration cannot allow itself to be threatened," its
mouthpiece answered.
"My threat isn't an empty one," Dauntrey persisted. "You leave only one
exit open for me."
"I am sorry, but I have no authority to grant large sums to any one, on
any pretext." The tone was firm, but something in the eyes encouraged
Mary to persevere. She pleaded as nothing imaginable could have induced
her to plead for herself, and at last the man with the pince-nez
promised to "recommend the administration" to give his lordship two
thousand francs. Dauntrey was provided with a bit of yellow paper, such
as Mary had seen in the hand of the veiled woman. This, he was told,
must be presented upstairs, and in the morning Dauntrey would receive
the gift, or "loan," of two thousand francs.
Mary had expected him to be bitterly disappointed, but when she had
secured her hand-bag and they were leaving the Casino together, he
seemed comparatively cheerful. "With this money I may win everything
back at baccarat in Nice," he said, "if Eve doesn't object. We've got to
go somewhere. Why not there? And if I lose, things won't be any worse
with us than they are now. What use is two thousand francs except to
gamble with? Still, I didn't think they'd give me as much, and they
wouldn't, by half, if it hadn't been for you."
"I hope Lady Dauntrey won't be disappointed," Mary ventured.
"I don't know--I don't know," he muttered. "Eve is in a strange state of
mind. It makes me anxious for the future. But what's the good of
worrying? Perhaps there won't be any future."
Lady Dauntrey was sitting on an iron seat near the top of the gardens.
She sprang up when the lamplight showed her the two figures she knew,
walking side by side.
"Well?" she asked breathlessly.
"Two thousand francs--thanks to Miss Grant," her husband answered; and
Mary was afraid of an angry outburst, but it did not come.
"Two thousand francs!" Eve echoed, dully. "Better than nothing. But
what's to become of us? Where shall we go? If we buy tickets even second
class for England, there's a lot gone. If only we could get away to some
place near by and hide ourselves for a while, till we could have time to
look round and make up our minds!" She turned quickly to Mary. "While
you were both gone," she said, "I was thinking. It's true, isn't it,
that Captain Hannaford left the château he bought to you?"
"Yes," Mary admitted.
"I was wondering if you'd let us live in it for a few days--or a few
weeks."
"I'm going there myself to-night," Mary said impulsively. Then a curious
sensation gripped her, as if she were caught by a wave and swept onward,
in spite of herself, toward something which she feared and even hated.
She wished intensely that Lady Dauntrey had not mentioned the Château
Lontana, and that it had been possible to be silent about her own plans.
She had spoken without stopping to think; but even now that she did
think, she could not see how silence would have been easy. It seemed
that unless she were willing to be hard and ungenerous to this unhappy
man and woman she could not avoid offering them shelter for a few days.
Quickly she told herself that she must give them money in addition to
the _viatique_ which Lord Dauntrey would receive in cash to-morrow. If
he still refused to accept anything more from her, Lady Dauntrey would
need no persuasion. Mary was instinctively sure of this. And she thought
that when the husband and wife were in possession of a few hundred
pounds they would be only too glad to leave the gloomy Château Lontana
and go to England or somewhere else, to recover themselves.
While she hesitated, feeling compelled to invite the Dauntreys, yet
facing the necessity with almost exaggerated reluctance, Eve saved her
the responsibility of deciding. "Won't you take us with you?" she asked
humbly. "It seems--providential--for us that you're going. So strange,
too, that it should be to-night; and so queer the idea coming into my
head. Just as if it was meant to be!"
Now the matter had passed beyond control, Mary had the impulse to rebel.
The wave had got her and was bearing her along. She tried to catch at
safety.
"But--Lord Dauntrey must stay in Monte Carlo--till to-morrow. And I have
to go to-night," she stammered. "I don't quite see----"
"You're going alone?" Eve asked.
"Yes."
"How queer of the Princess Della Robbia to let you do that!"
"She doesn't know." The girl defended Marie.
"Doesn't know where you're going?"
"No." Mary felt obliged to explain. "I was--vexed at something that
happened to-day. So I--finished my visit sooner than I expected."
"Oh! And does your friend Mrs. Winter approve?"
"She doesn't know, either. She's at Nice for the day, with her husband."
"Surely somebody must know what you're doing. Your own Prince Vanno?"
Mary shrank a little from the familiar name on lips that had no right
to it; yet she answered gently: "Even he doesn't know. He's in Rome; but
perhaps you've heard. It was in the paper, Marie--Princess Della Robbia
told me. I shall write to him, of course."
"Of course. Meanwhile, you seem to be--sneaking off the stage when
nobody's looking." Lady Dauntrey laughed a staccato laugh at her own
rather lumbering joke.
"Nobody but you and Lord Dauntrey, as it happens."
"Well," Eve began to speak slowly, as if on reflection, "I'm sure you
must have some wise reason for what you're doing, dear; but whatever it
is, I can't help thinking it will be a very good thing for you to have
us with you. You're too young and pretty to be running about by
yourself, and going to stay in lonesome villas. There are servants at
the Château Lontana who expect you, anyhow, I suppose?"
"Only a caretaker Captain Hannaford put in. I haven't had time to let
her know."
"Dear me, you are casual! The place is near Ventimiglia, isn't it? I've
never seen it."
"I've only passed, motoring to Bordighera. It's not very far beyond the
frontier."
"Good! That simplifies matters. Dauntrey can easily run back to Monte
to-morrow and get his money. When are you starting, dear?"
"I must find out about trains. And before I leave, I have to go to the
Galerie Charles Trois and get a jeweller there to take back one or two
pieces of jewellery, for I must have some money. When I--decided to
start this evening, the bank was already shut."
Lady Dauntrey darted a sudden glance of interest at the bag in Mary's
hand, which she had been too preoccupied to notice until now. Her guest
had kept most of the much talked of jewels at the bank, while staying at
the Villa Bella Vista, but it was not difficult to guess that at present
they were in their owner's hand.
"You won't get nearly what the things are worth," she said. "A pity to
sell just because you were too late to cash a cheque! I've got a hundred
francs. Why not let us all three go to Italy with that, and Dauntrey can
finance you with the Casino money till you get some from your bank? He
can take over a cheque of yours. That would save time, you know--for
it's late already."
"Very well," Mary agreed. A heavy sense of depression had fallen upon
her. The eager anxiety she had felt to reach the end of her journey and
write to Vanno died down like a fire quenched by water.
"You didn't tell me that you had a hundred francs," Dauntrey reproached
his wife.
"No," she replied. "And I wouldn't have told you now, if you weren't
obliged to keep out of the Casino."
He turned his head aside, and was silent.
"Aren't you taking luggage?" Lady Dauntrey inquired of Mary.
"Yes. I have a small trunk and a hand-bag with me."
"Where are they?"
"In the room of the concierge at Mrs. Winter's."
"Let me think a minute," said Eve. "Why should we wait for a train?
There's sure not to be one when we want it. We have no luggage, and you
say your trunk is small. We might hire a carriage and drive. It would be
much pleasanter. Perhaps you can lend me a few things for to-night?"
"Of course," Mary answered, trying to be cordial.
"How good you are to us!" Eve exclaimed. "We can never be grateful
enough. Dauntrey, will you go on to the railway station and order a
commissionnaire to fetch Mary's things from the Winters' house? He can
bring them back to the station in his cart."
"Why shouldn't we pick the things up on our way, if we're to have a
carriage?" her husband argued.
"Because my plan's the best," she insisted. "We must eat before we
start. There won't be much food in the villa, as Mary's paying a
surprise visit. We'll go to a little hotel by the station. I'm frozen,
and food will do us all good. By the time we're ready to start the man
will have brought the luggage."
"It sounds unnecessarily complicated," Dauntrey muttered; but Eve gave
him a gimlet look from under level brows, and he slouched away
obediently, leaving his wife to follow slowly with the girl.