"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That's because you've got a long way to
travel yet. But I apologize. No elderly man should permit himself to
get into the habit of preaching."
"Oh! that's all right." Rudge laughed, displaying the beautiful
teeth of all his countrymen. "I don't say, mind you, that I'm
not disappointed in the Casino. I thought the gambling would be
different--something much more feverish. It seems just rather dull and
sordid to me."
"Gambling is life and death to the gambler, but it has no great
spectacular value," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is more exciting to
read about than to see."
The young man nodded his agreement.
"You're rather a big bug socially, aren't you?" he asked, with a
diffident candor that made it impossible to take offense. "I mean you
know all the duchesses and earls and countesses and things."
"A good many of them," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "And also the Jews and
the Portuguese and the Greeks and the Argentines."
"Eh?" said Mr. Rudge.
"I was just explaining," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that I move in
English society."
Franklin Rudge meditated for a moment or two.
"You know the Countess Czarnova, don't you?" he said at length.
"Slightly," said Mr. Satterthwaite, making the same answer he had made
to Elizabeth.
"Now there's a woman whom it's been very interesting to meet. One's
inclined to think that the aristocracy of Europe is played out and
effete. That may be true of the men, but the women are different. Isn't
it a pleasure to meet an exquisite creature like the Countess? Witty,
charming, intelligent, generations of civilization behind her, an
aristocrat to her finger tips!"
"Is she?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Well, isn't she? You know what her family are?"
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I'm afraid I know very little about her."
"She was a Radzynski," explained Franklin Rudge. "One of the oldest
families in Hungary. She's had the most extraordinary life. You know
that great rope of pearls she wears?"
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"That was given her by the King of Bosnia. She smuggled some secret
papers out of the kingdom for him."
"I heard," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that the pearls had been given her
by the King of Bosnia."
The fact was indeed a matter of common gossip, it being reported that
the lady had been a _chère amie_ of His Majesty's in days gone by.
"Now I'll tell you something more."
Mr. Satterthwaite listened, and the more he listened the more he
admired the fertile imagination of the Countess Czarnova. No vulgar
"siren stuff" (as Elizabeth Martin had put it) for her. The young man
was shrewd enough in that way, clean-living and idealistic. No, the
Countess moved austerely through a labyrinth of diplomatic intrigues.
She had enemies, detractors--naturally! It was a glimpse, so the young
American was to feel, into the life of the old régime with the Countess
as the central figure, aloof, aristocratic, the friend of counselors
and princes, a figure to inspire romantic devotion.
"And she's had any amount to contend against," ended the young man
warmly. "It's an extraordinary thing, but she's never found a woman
who would be a real friend to her. Women have been against her all her
life."
"Probably," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Don't you call it a scandalous thing?" demanded Rudge hotly.
"N--No," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "I don't know that I do.
Women have got their own standards, you know. It's no good our mixing
ourselves up in their affairs. They must run their own show."
"I don't agree with you," said Rudge earnestly. "It's one of the worst
things in the world today, the unkindness of woman to woman. You
know Elizabeth Martin? Now she agrees with me in theory absolutely.
We've often discussed it together. She's only a kid, but her ideas
are all right. But the moment it comes to a practical test--why,
she's as bad as any of them. Got a real down on the Countess without
knowing a darned thing about her, and won't listen when I try to
tell her things. It's all _wrong_, Mr. Satterthwaite. I believe in
democracy--and--what's that but brotherhood between men and sisterhood
between women?"
He paused earnestly. Mr. Satterthwaite tried to think of any
circumstances in which a sisterly feeling might arise between the
Countess and Elizabeth Martin and failed.
"Now the Countess, on the other hand," went on Rudge, "admires
Elizabeth immensely, and thinks her charming in every way. Now what
does that show?"
"It shows," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly, "that the Countess has lived
a considerable time longer than Miss Martin has."
Franklin Rudge went off unexpectedly at a tangent. "Do you know how old
she is? She told me. Rather sporting of her. I should have guessed
her to be twenty-nine, but she told me of her own accord that she was
thirty-five. She doesn't look it, does she?"
Mr. Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady's age was between
forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.
"I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte
Carlo," he murmured.
He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad.
Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white-hot chivalry when he would have
disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.
"Here is the Countess," said the boy, rising.
She came up to them with the languid grace that so became her.
Presently they all three sat down together. She was very charming to
Mr. Satterthwaite, but in rather an aloof manner. She deferred to him
prettily, asking his opinion, and treating him as an authority on the
Riviera.
The whole thing was cleverly managed. Very few minutes had elapsed
before Franklin Rudge found himself gracefully but unmistakably
dismissed, and the Countess and Mr. Satterthwaite were left
_tête-à-tête_.
She put down her parasol and began drawing patterns with it in the dust.
"You are interested in that nice American boy, Mr. Satterthwaite, are
you not?"
Her voice was low with a caressing note in it.
"He's a nice young fellow," said Mr. Satterthwaite noncommittally.
"I find him sympathetic, yes," said the Countess reflectively. "I have
told him much of my life."
"Indeed," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Details such as I have told to few others," she continued dreamily. "I
have had an extraordinary life, Mr. Satterthwaite. Few would credit the
amazing things that have happened to me."
Mr. Satterthwaite was shrewd enough to penetrate her meaning. After
all, the stories that she had told to Franklin Rudge _might_ be the
truth. It was extremely unlikely, and in the last degree improbable,
but it was _possible_. No one could definitely say, "This is not so."
He did not reply, and the Countess continued to look out dreamily
across the bay. And suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite had a strange and new
impression of her. He saw her no longer as a harpy, but as a desperate
creature at bay, fighting tooth and nail. He stole a sideways glance at
her. The parasol was down; he could see the little haggard lines at the
corners of her eyes. In one temple a pulse was beating.
It flowed through him again and again--that increasing certitude. She
was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him
or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still
felt he hadn't got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty
of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were
marvelous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love?
Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be
that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the
situation.
Her _tête-à-tête_ with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the
gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that
she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin
Rudge. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for
that. He knew when it was wise to hold one's tongue.
He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her
fortunes at roulette.
Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore
her losses well, with the stoical _sang-froid_ of the old habitué. She
staked _en plein_ once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little
on the middle dozen and then lost it again; finally she backed _manque_
six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the
shoulders she turned away.
She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an
underlying note of green. The famous Bosnian pearls were looped round
her neck and long pearl earrings hung from her ears.
Mr. Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.
"The Czarnova," said one. "She wears well, does she not? The Crown
jewels of Bosnia look fine on her."
The other, a small man, stared curiously after her. "So those are the
pearls of Bosnia, are they?" he asked. "_En vérité._ That is odd."
He chuckled softly to himself.
Mr. Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his
head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.
"My dear Mr. Quin." He shook him warmly by the hand. "The last place I
should ever have dreamed of seeing you."
Mr. Quin smiled, his dark, attractive face lighting up.
"It should not surprise you," he said. "It is Carnival time. I am often
here in Carnival time."
"Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in
the rooms? I find them rather warm."
"It will be pleasanter outside," agreed the other. "We will walk in the
gardens."
The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.
"That is better," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Much better," agreed Mr. Quin. "And we can talk freely. I am sure that
there is much that you want to tell me."
"There is indeed."
Speaking eagerly, Mr. Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual
he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young
Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth--he sketched them all in with a deft
touch.
"You have changed since I first knew you," said Mr. Quin, smiling, when
the recital was over.
"In what way?"
"You were content then to look on at the dramas that life offered.
Now--you want to take part--to act."
"It is true," confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. "But in this case I do not
know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps--" He hesitated.
"Perhaps you will help me?"
"With pleasure," said Mr. Quin. "We will see what we can do."
Mr. Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.
The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin
to his friend Mr. Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on
together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard
news that aroused his attention.
"Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening," he confided excitedly to
Mr. Quin.
"The Parisian stage favorite?"
"Yes. I daresay you know--it's common property--she is the King of
Bosnia's latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They
say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris."
"It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet
tonight."
"Exactly what I thought."
Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed
fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She
was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a
glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down
her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her
left ankle.
She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.
"Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this,"
murmured Mr. Quin in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear.
The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported
herself.
She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly
to one of the center roulette tables.
She was dressed in white--a mere straight slip of marocain, such as a
debutante might have worn, and her gleaming white neck and arms were
unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.
"It is clever, that," said Mr. Satterthwaite with instant approval.
"She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary."
He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he
amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.
There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34
turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.
With a smile, Mr. Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening,
and placed the maximum on Number 5.
The Countess in her turn leaned forward and placed the maximum on
Number 6.
"_Faites vos jeux_," called the croupier hoarsely. "_Rien ne va plus.
Plus rien._"
The ball spun, humming merrily. Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
_This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and
despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death._
Click!
The croupier bent forward to see.
"_Numéro cinq, rouge, impair et manque._"
Mr. Satterthwaite had won!
The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr.
Satterthwaite's winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The
Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of
them.
"_A Madame_," he said brusquely.
The Countess picked up the money. Mr. Satterthwaite drew back. He
remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he
returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to
the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head
impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous
cry.
"_Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames._"
Mr. Satterthwaite rejoined Mr. Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanor he
was feeling extremely indignant. Mr. Quin listened sympathetically.
"Too bad," he said, "but these things happen. We are to meet your
friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party."
* * * * *
The three met at midnight, and Mr. Quin explained his plan.
"It is what is called a 'Hedges and Highways' party," he explained. "We
choose our meeting-place, then each one goes out and is bound in honor
to invite the first person he meets."
Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea. "Say, what happens if they won't
accept?"
"You must use your utmost powers of persuasion."
"Good. And where's the meeting-place?"
"A somewhat Bohemian café--where one can take strange guests. It is
called Le Caveau."
He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr. Satterthwaite
was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he
claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a
kind of cellar, where they found a table spread for supper and lit by
old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.
"We are the first," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Ah! here comes Franklin--"
He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward
moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done.
The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honors.
Last of all came Mr. Quin. With him was a small dark man, neatly
dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr. Satterthwaite. A moment
later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening
had made such a lamentable mistake.
"Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher," said Mr. Quin.
The little man seemed confused. Mr. Quin performed the necessary
introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought--an excellent
supper. Wine came--very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out
of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth.
Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories--not humorous
stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr. Quin passed
round the wine.
"I'll tell you--and this is a true story--about a man who made good,"
said Franklin Rudge impressively. He had shown no lack of appreciation
of the champagne.
He told his story--perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like
many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.
As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to
wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward
across the table.
"I, too, will tell you a story," he said thickly. "But mine is the
story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who
went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story."
"Pray tell it to us, monsieur," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously.
Pierre Vaucher leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.
"It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a
working jeweler. He was young and lighthearted and industrious in his
profession. They said there was a future before him. A good marriage
was already arranged for him, the bride not too bad-looking, the dowry
most satisfactory. And then, what would you think? One morning he sees
a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, Messieurs. Beautiful?
Yes, perhaps, if she were not half-starved. But anyway, for this young
man, she has a magic that he cannot resist. She has been struggling to
find work, she is virtuous--or at least that is what she tells him. I
do not know if it was true."
The Countess's voice came suddenly out of the semi-darkness. "Why
should it not be true? There are many like that."
"Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her--an act
of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged
their feelings. He married--I will call her Jeanne--it was a good
action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to
him. He had sacrificed much for her sake."
"A charming beginning for the poor girl," observed the Countess
sarcastically.
"He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had
moods--tantrums--she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next.
At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him
so as to keep body and soul together. That truth hurt him, it hurt him
horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface.
And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes.
They quarreled. She reproached him--Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach
him with?
"You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to
come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little
shop with no news of her. He had one friend--absinthe. The business did
not prosper so well.
"And then one day he came into the shop to find her sitting there.
She was beautifully dressed. She had rings on her hands. He stood
considering her. His heart was beating--but beating! He was at a loss
what to do. He would have liked to have beaten her, to have clasped
her in his arms, to have thrown her down on the floor and trampled on
her, to have thrown himself at her feet. He did none of these things.
He took up his pincers and went on with his work. 'Madame desires?' he
asked formally.
"That upset her. She did not look for that, see you. 'Pierre,' she
said, 'I have come back.' He laid aside his pincers and looked at her.
'You wish to be forgiven?' he said. 'You want me to take you back? You
are sincerely repentant?' 'Do you want me back?' she murmured. Oh! very
softly she said it.
"He knew she was laying a trap for him. He longed to seize her in his
arms, but he was too clever for that. He pretended indifference.
"'I am a Christian man,' he said. 'I try to do what the Church
directs.' 'Ah!' he thought, 'I will humble her, humble her to her
knees.'
"But Jeanne, that is what I will call her, flung back her head and
laughed. Evil laughter it was. 'I mock myself at you, little Pierre,'
she said. 'Look at these rich clothes, these rings and bracelets. I
came to show myself to you. I thought I would make you take me in your
arms and when you did so, then--_then_ I would spit in your face and
tell you how I hated you!'
"And on that she went out of the shop. Can you believe, Messieurs, that
a woman could be as evil as all that--to come back only to torment him?"
"No," said the Countess. "I would not believe it, and any man who was
not a fool would not believe it either. But all men are blind fools."
Pierre Vaucher took no notice of her. He went on: "And so that young
man of whom I tell you sank lower and lower. He drank more absinthe.
The little shop was sold over his head. He became of the dregs, of
the gutter. Then came the war. Ah! it was good, the war. It took that
man out of the gutter and taught him to be a brute beast no longer. It
drilled him--and sobered him. He endured cold and pain and the fear of
death--but he did not die, and when the war ended, he was a man again.
"It was then, Messieurs, that he came South. His lungs had been
affected; they said he must find work in the South. I will not weary
you with all the things he did. Suffice it to say that he ended up as a
croupier, and there--there in the Casino one evening, he saw again--the
woman who had ruined his life. She did not recognize him, but he
recognized her. She appeared to be rich and to lack for nothing--but,
Messieurs, the eyes of a croupier are sharp. There came an evening when
she placed her last stake in the world on the table. Ask me not how I
know--I do know--one feels these things. Others might not believe. She
still had rich clothes--why not pawn them, one would say? But to do
that--pah! your credit is gone at once. Her jewels? Ah, no! Was I not
a jeweler in my time? Long ago the real jewels have gone. The pearls
of a King sold one by one, and replaced with false. And meantime one
must eat and pay one's hotel bill. Yes, and the rich men--well, they
have seen one about for many years. Bah! they say--she is over fifty! A
younger chicken for my money."
A long shuddering sigh came out of the windows where the Countess
leaned back.
"Yes. It was a great moment, that. Two nights I have watched her. Lose,
lose, and lose again. And now the end. She puts all on one number.
Beside her, an English milord stakes the maximum also--on the next
number. The ball rolls; the moment has come; she has lost.
"Her eyes meet mine. What do I do? I jeopardize my place in the Casino.
I rob the English milord. '_A Madame_,' I say, and pay over the money."
"Ah!" There was a crash as the Countess sprang to her feet and leaned
across the table, sweeping her glass onto the floor. "Why?" she cried.
"That's what I want to know, _why_ did you do it?"
There was a long pause, a pause that seemed interminable, and still
those two facing each other across the table looked and looked. It was
like a duel.
A mean little smile crept across Pierre Vaucher's face. He raised his
hands. "Madame," he said. "There is such a thing as pity."
"Ah!"