Monte Carlo—The European Shrine of Sport and Fashion—Apocryphal
Gambling Stories—Leopold, King of the Belgians—An Able and Picturesque
Man of Business
I
Having disported ourselves in and about Paris, next in order comes a
journey to the South of France—that is to the Riviera—by geography the
main circle of the Mediterranean Sea, by proclamation Cannes, Nice, and
Mentone, by actual fact and count, Monte Carlo—even the swells adopting
a certain hypocrisy as due to virtue.
Whilst Monte Carlo is chiefly, I might say exclusively, identified in
the general mind with gambling, and was indeed at the outset but a
gambling resort, it long ago outgrew the limits of the Casino, becoming
a Mecca of the world of fashion as well as the world of sport. Half the
ruling sovereigns of Europe and all the leaders of European swelldom,
the more prosperous of the demi-mondaines and no end of the merely rich
of every land, congregate there and thereabouts. At the top of the
season the show of opulence and impudence is bewildering.
The little principality of Monaco is hardly bigger than the Cabbage
Patch of the renowned Mrs. Wiggs. It is, however, more happily situate.
Nestled under the heights of La Condamine and Tête de Chien and looking
across a sheltered bay upon the wide and blue Mediterranean, it has
better protection against the winds of the North than Nice, or Cannes,
or Mentone. It is an appanage—in point of fact the only
estate—remaining to the once powerful Grimaldi family.
In the early days of land-piracy Old Man Grimaldi held his own with Old
Man Hohenzollern and Old Man Hapsburg. The Savoys and the Bourbons were
kith and kin. But in the long run of Freebooting the Grimaldis did not
keep up with the procession. How they retained even this remnant of
inherited brigandage and self-appointed royalty, I do not know. They
are here under leave of the Powers and the especial protection, strange
to say, of the French Republic.
Something over fifty years ago, being hard-up for cash, the Grimaldi of
the period fell under the wiles of an ingenious Alsatian gambler,
Guerlac by name, who foresaw that Baden-Baden and Hombourg were
approaching their finish and that the sports must look elsewhere for
their living, the idle rich for their sport. This tiny “enclave” in
French territory presented many advantages over the German Dukedoms. It
was an independent sovereignty issuing its own coins and postage
stamps. It was in proud possession of a half-dozen policemen which it
called its “army.” It was paradisaic in beauty and climate. Its “ruler”
was as poor as Job’s turkey, but by no means as proud as Lucifer.
The bargain was struck. The gambler smote the rock of Monte Carlo as
with a wand of enchantment and a stream of plenty burst forth. The
mountain-side responded to the touch. It chortled in its glee and
blossomed as the rose.