Monte Carlo for the first time, a professor from the Sorbonne, Durand
by name. They say he has worked on his system for twenty years, and is
bringing the savings of a lifetime to test it. Ah! we’ll see what we
shall see. Fine looking old chap, isn’t he?”
“Very striking,--like a Hebrew prophet.”
“He has books and books of figures and calculations. What his system is
no one knows. I’ve seen a heap of them come like conquerors and go away
broken on the wheel.”
“You know the place well?”
“I should think so. Never missed a season for twenty years. Coming here
has got to be a habit with me. In summer I have a cottage in Kent where
I grow roses; in winter an apartment in Monte where I play roulette.
Oh, I’m a great boy, you don’t know me.”
Mr. Tope laughed in jolly appreciation of himself.
“Well, I suppose I’m crazy like the rest of ’em. We’re all crazy there.
The Casino is a great lunatic asylum. We wander about as if we were
free, but we’re not. Inevitably our feet carry us back. Don’t let it
get you, young man. Avoid Monte as you would the plague.... By the way
there’s the first call for lunch. I’m going to have a wash first. See
you later.”
2.
Hugh followed a line of passengers to the dining car. He had found a
place and was looking at the menu card when the waiter ushered a lady
into the opposite seat. He looked up and then as quickly away. For
even in that casual glimpse he was aware that his vis-à-vis was most
alarmingly attractive.
Now Hugh was an unusually shy young man, and in the ordinary course of
events would have eaten his meal in silence, and gone away without a
word. To his amazement, he heard a firm, clear voice addressing him:
“Don’t you remember me?”
Suddenly he found himself gazing into a pair of smiling brown eyes; but
even as he looked the smile died in their amber depths. In its place
was embarrassment; a frown puckered the delicately pencilled eyebrows.
Again the clear voice spoke almost with reproach.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you are ridiculously like a friend of
mine,--Paul Vulning.”
“Indeed, that’s curious.”
“Yes, too absurd. For now I look, you’re quite a bit different. Paul
must be five years older than you, but he looks ten. The dear boy
doesn’t take the care of himself he ought. A sad scapegrace.”
She regarded him again, then laughed joyously.
“Why, here we are, two perfect strangers talking together like old
pals. What must you think of me? Because of your likeness to Paul I
feel as if I’d known you for ages. What’s your name?”
“Hugh Kildair.”
“Sounds deliciously Scotch. But you’re English, aren’t you?”
“I’ve lived all my life in England.”
“Indeed? So have I. But never again. The English are so cold. They
don’t understand temperament. Even before my husband died and we lost
all our money, I was quite fed up with it. Now I spend the winter in
Monte and the summer in Aix.”
The waiter interrupted her with the wine card. She looked rather
disdainfully down the list and chose the most expensive. Then she
scanned Hugh appraisingly. His new grey suit sat well. His collar and
tie were of the right sort. He looked clean, correct; a public school
man. The lady seemed satisfied.
“You’re a nice boy,” she said happily. “I’m Mrs. Belmire. Every one in
Monte knows me. You’re going to Monte, of course?”
Hugh hesitated. “No, I’m rather seedy. I’m going to Menton to rest up.”
“Menton. Why! you’ll be bored to death there! Nothing but old tabbies
who go to each others’ teas and talk gossip. Oh, you’ll hate it. Get
off at Monte. Promise me you will.”
She was really a beautiful woman. Everything about her was so
exquisitely correct. Her complexion had the delicacy of porcelain; her
henna-coloured hair looked as if it had just come from the hands of the
coiffeur; her eyes had passion in their tarn-brown depths. As her hand
touched his he felt that he would have got off at Hades to please her.
“Seems a good idea; I might as well rest there.”
“Topping! it’s decided then. You’ll come and see me. I suppose you’ll
stay at the ‘Paris.’ I wouldn’t though. They’ll charge you two hundred
francs a night for a room. Oh, yes, my dear boy, you’re going to say
their charges are their charges, but you don’t know Monte. Unless
you’re odiously oofy, don’t go to the Paris. It’s simply infested with
‘rastas’ and _nouveaux riches_. Some of the hotels on the hill are
really quite nice, and you’ll meet the right sort of people there.
You see, I’m taking a motherly interest in you. I don’t want to see
you foolishly extravagant. Above all, don’t throw your money away
recklessly at the Casino. If you must play let me be your adviser. Let
me give you the benefit of my experience.”
“That’s awfully nice of you.”
“Not at all. I’ve helped heaps of men. I can’t afford to play myself,
but I enjoy seeing others win. Have a cigarette?”
He took one from a gold case, and they puffed between courses. She
sipped only a little of the wine, and the bottle was half full when the
waiter whisked it away. She ordered a _fine champagne_ with her coffee,
and graciously allowed Hugh to pay the bill. As she rose to leave she
gave his hand a little squeeze.
“There! I’ve enjoyed my lunch so much! Remember me; Mrs. Belmire. And
don’t forget to get off at Monte.”
The paying of the bill had a sobering effect on him.
“After all,” he thought, “if she knew I was a nobody with only two
thousand francs in the world she wouldn’t wipe her shoes on me. As for
meeting her in Monte, this decides me. I’ll steer clear of the place.”
3.
The scenery was as lovely as a painted panel. Between umbrella pines
he saw the majestic sway of the sea. Snowy villas peeped from sombre
cyprus groves. The palms were pale gold in the wistful sunshine. Magic
names glorified the commonplace looking stations.--San Raphael, Agay,
Nice. In the setting sun the way seemed to be growing more and more
wonderful, as if working up to a climax of beauty. Every moment moved
him to fresh rapture. And to think that this loveliness had been here
all the time and he had not known! How could people continue to exist
in that grim grey London? Was there such a place as this, or was he
dreaming it? Would he ever go back again to fog and grime? No, never,
never....
Villefranche, Beaulieu, Eze ... the light had faded, yet still he
stared at the shadows through the darkened pane. He was aware suddenly
that the glass was reflecting mirror-like the compartment behind him.
At first he thought it was empty, then he heard a sigh and saw it was
occupied by a slim slip of a girl. She was sitting in the corner, very
quiet, very anxious. She was dressed in deep black, and her white,
rather haggard face had a kind of pathetic appeal. He noted all this
without any particular interest. Then suddenly she took off her hat and
he saw that she had the most wonderful hair in the world.
She rose to arrange it before the small mirror above her seat. With a
brusque movement she withdrew two combs and let it ripple down in a
rain of gold. It reached below her waist. It covered her like a cape,
it shimmered in the lamp-light, it seemed as luminous as a flame. At
the sight of such glory Hugh turned and stared.
Then the girl noticed him and flushed with shame. She clutched her
bright tresses to her head and swiftly rearranged them. She turned her
back....
_Monte Carlo._
They were getting in now. The train seemed to plunge into a dazzle of
light; then the darkness of another tunnel; then a long green station.
On the lamps so meanly printed, he could see the magic name that opens
wide the portals of romance. Surely it should be blazoned in fiery
capitals on the heights of heaven! This then was the spot of which
people talk and dream, that masterpiece of nature and art which never
disenchants, which is adorable even in its cruelty. Fatal, fascinating
name,--Monte Carlo.
It was the climax of the beautiful journey. The train disgorged nearly
all its passengers as if this place like a magnet was drawing them out.
He saw Bob Bender, and Jarvie Tope. He watched old Professor Durand
looking curiously about him, and a white-haired porter taking the
baggage of Mrs. Belmire. He felt alone, abandoned.
As the train lingered, loth to leave this charmed spot, Hugh felt a
sudden desire to get off. He saw the fair-haired girl struggling with
a basket-valise. With a sudden impulse he gathered together his own
luggage and prepared to descend, but the train was already in motion.
“Just as well. Now for Menton.”
Then behold! the train halted again and backed to the station.
“Fate!” said Hugh and jumped off. He passed through a long baggage room
into a courtyard where there was a line of luxurious hotel omnibuses
and porters in livery. The court was backed by a wall of rock that
rose to the heights of a glorious garden. Palms speared the silvery
arc-lights. Masses of geraniums stained the face of the rock. On the
winding steps that led to the garden a nude statue of a woman was set
in a niche amid ferns and water-lilies, and a diamond spray of water.
On the long hill to the right was a line of fiacres. He saw the
fair-haired girl hand her bag to one of the drivers.
“Pension Paoli,” she said.
Hugh watched her drive away; then he, too, hailed a fiacre. The dark
driver bent to him with smiling politeness.
“Where to, monsieur?”
Hugh thought for a moment. As he stood there he had a strange thrill
of wonder and of joy. He seemed to breathe an enchanted air; the silver
lights amid the trees were those of fairyland; he felt as if he were
hesitating on the very threshold of romance.
“Pension Paoli,” he answered.
CHAPTER THREE
THE POISONED PARADISE
1.
An amiable, early morning sun was irradiating that great theatre which
is Monte Carlo, and a regiment of stage hands were preparing the scene
for another day. Hawk-eyed bands of them with brush and pan were
grooming the cleanest streets in the world, pouncing triumphantly on
burnt matches and unsightly cigarette ends. Other bands invaded the
beautiful gardens, trimming each blade of grass to the same size and
meticulously barbering each bud and flower. They moved with nonchalant
grace, these brown-skinned Monegascans, as became the servitors of that
great, benevolent institution, the Casino.
As Hugh passed through the gardens, breathing the perfumed air, a
great delight glowed in him. His first impression was of the theatric
quality of the place, its note of unreality. It was a fit setting for
the pleasure-seeking hordes, for the legions of luxury, for these
dreaming of fortune and those dead to hope. He never lost his sense of
its unreality, of its being a stage scene, on which was played a daily
drama in three acts: Morning, Afternoon, and Evening.
Passing between the Casino and the Hotel de Paris, he descended in
the direction of the Condamine. At the top of a long hill, a little
way past the post office, he paused with a joy that thrilled him to
ecstasy....
_He saw a little U shaped harbour shielded from the sea. It was as
delicate as a pastel, a placque of sapphire set in pearl. In the
crystal air the red-roofed houses crowded close to it. The terraced
town rose on tip-toe to peer at it. It was all glitter and gleam, and
radiant beauty. And yonder in sombre contrast rose the Rock, monstrous,
mediæval,--so scornful of that hectic modernity across the bay._...
He climbed the long steep hill, crossed the sunny square in front of
the palace and plunged into the cool gloom of the narrow streets.
Wandering idly along he came to a low brown house with a tiny porch,
and four pepper-trees in front. He looked at it carelessly enough, then
turned and wandered into the garden of the Prince. He gazed curiously
at a broken pillar covered with ivy. There was a spring sunk deep in
the rock; the flowers bloomed there; and bees and butterflies made the
nook gay and tuneful. He found a bench that overlooked the glimmering
sea and rested awhile.
As he sat pensively dreaming, two pale ghosts may have been watching
him; a man strong and tall, a girl sweet and fragrant as a flower.
Perhaps wrapt in that great love to which he owed his being, they were
drawing near to him with wistful pain, with adoring tenderness. Who
knows?...
Filled with a strange melancholy Hugh rose and went his unheeding way.
Again he looked carelessly at the house in which his mother was born,
in which _her_ mother still lived....
But he remembered nothing. He did not know. He never knew....
2.
The chief recommendation of the Pension Paoli was its cheapness. For
twenty francs a day Hugh had his board and a chamber that overlooked
the red roofs and the blue sea beyond. He had a tiny balcony, too, and
in the lazy, limpid days he cultivated a cheerful lethargy.
It was one of those Bohemian establishments peculiar to the
Principality. People came and went without exciting interest. The
_clientele_ was imperturbably cosmopolitan, the cuisine piquantly
Italian. At the table d’hôte one heard half a dozen tongues and no one
was concerned about the respectability of his neighbour. Every one
seemed to gamble, and to think of little but the Casino.
Hugh’s first evening was typical. He was trying to go to sleep, when
about midnight some one entered the next room. He heard the sound of
money being emptied on the table, counted, then a sigh of satisfaction.
Every night this happened, only some nights there was no money and
curses took the place of content. On such nights he would say to
himself, “The Twitcher’s been loosing.”
The Twitcher was a tall weedy man, who, owing to some nervous malady,
had a trick of raising and lowering his eyebrows. He had a friend
whom Hugh called the Sword-Swallower, on account of his way of eating
ravioli. The S. S. was small and brisk, with tiny, cropped head, and a
large but carefully groomed moustache. His trousers were striped and of
the same width all the way down.
The S. S. and the Twitcher were allies and united in a dislike for a
third man, whom Hugh dubbed the Rat. This was a sturdy, bandy-legged
fellow with a bulging jaw, a broken nose and close-set, beady eyes. His
skin had a curious pallor, a prison pallor, Hugh thought. He decided
that the Rat had just finished doing time and was now spending the swag.
One day he overheard a conversation between the Twitcher and the
Sword-Swallower which referred to the Rat.
“Yes,” said the Twitcher, “the fellow’s as crooked as a ram’s horn. I
saw him do it again.”
“Do what?”
“He puts a louis on one of the dozens then watches the ball. Just as it
drops he shifts his stake to the winning dozen. He is quick as a flash
and nine times out of ten the croupier doesn’t notice it. So he gets
paid.”
“He’s a shady one. If you leave your money in the table at night, be
sure to lock your door.”
“I’ve never done so yet, but in future I’ll be more careful.”
At this moment the Rat entered and greeted them with a twinkle in his
beady eyes.
“Well,” he said briskly, “I’ve just made my ‘day,’--five louis. Now I
can rest.”
“You’re easily satisfied,” said the Twitcher; “if I don’t clear twenty,
I think I’m out of luck.”
“Not me,” said the Sword-Swallower. “If I can make the bank cough up a
couple of louis I quit. But I never fail.”
“What’s your system?” demanded the Rat.
“Oh, I play for a _paroli_. And yours?”
“I always play between the dozens,” answered the Rat; “it’s the safest.”
“Yes,” said the Twitcher. “You play a safe game all right. As for me,
give me the _traversals_....”
Here the conversation became too technical for Hugh to follow.
Presently the Twitcher said to the S. S.:
“Come on. Let’s go and scratch.”
As they went away, the Rat installed himself in a comfortable chair and
called for a _Dubonnet_. Then he lit a cigarette from a yellow packet,
blew the smoke blissfully through his nostrils, sipped his apéritif,
and seemed content with all the world.
“A sinister chap,” Hugh thought, and ceased to look at him. Suddenly he
heard a gasp of dismay.
The Rat was staring out of the window, his sallow face livid, his hands
clutching the table edge. Then he dived through the little door at the
back of the restaurant and disappeared. Astonished, Hugh followed the
direction of the man’s gaze. All he saw was a mild old priest peering
rather curiously at the house. Hugh watched wonderingly; but the
priest, after lingering a little, went slowly away, and the Rat did not
finish his apéritif.
Among the other boarders were two Swedish women, mother and daughter.
The mother was short and fat, and the daughter, tall and thin; but both
were blonde and had shiny, red faces. They dressed in black satin, with
gold chains round their necks and diamond rings on every available
finger. They ate gluttonously, and spoke a harsh, gabbling tongue.
Although they were evidently rich, they gambled greedily for five franc
pieces.
Occasionally Hugh saw the girl with the bright, heaping hair. Sometimes
at meals he would see her slip into a remote corner, quiet as a mouse.
She looked at no one, kept her head down, ate very little and stole out
again as softly as she had come.
One day he questioned Terese, the waitress, about her.
“Ah,” said Terese, “you’re asking me something. All I can tell you is
that her name on the register is Margot Leblanc. She’s a queer one.
Never speaks to a soul. She spends her time between the church and the
Casino, between praying and gambling. I can’t make her out.”
Hugh’s curiosity was aroused. But the girl’s manner discouraged any
attempt at acquaintance. Once when he chanced to encounter her on the
stair, his polite greeting was met by such a sullen silence that his
interest in her faded.
3.
His health was improving daily. It seemed quite wonderful. Instead of
watching the tennis-players, he wanted to join them. The distance of
his walks lengthened. He joined the little English library and changed
his books frequently. On the heights above the town, sitting under an
olive tree with the vast shimmer of the sea below him, he read through
long sunny hours. Sometimes he got out his box of water colours, and
made some sketches.
At half past nine every morning he sauntered down the palm-lined
avenue that descends to the Casino. Even at that hour it was packed
with luxurious motors, and he christened it “Limousine Lane.” Dozens
of gardeners were valeting the lawns on either hand to an unheard of
greenness and trimness. The air was always delicious.
At the foot of “Limousine Lane” was the “Cheese,” a round grassy mound
diagrammed with flowers. It was shaded by four proud palms and a great
rubber tree. Around it were seats for spectators. Lounging there Hugh
saw the world of fashion parade. Women exquisitely dressed, and men
immaculate sauntered past like actors on a stage. They mounted the
seven carpeted steps of the Casino, paused for a moment as if conscious
that every detail of their costumes was perfect; then turned and were
swallowed by the Temple of Chance.
While Hugh never wearied of this constant swirl of elegance, his main
interest was in the swinging doors of the Casino itself. He never tired
of watching the players come and go. One day Bob Bender came down the
steps looking rustier and more mildewed than ever. He recognized Hugh.
“What, sir,--not playing yet?”
“No, I have no money to lose. Are you doing all right?”
The old gambler shook his head in a melancholy way.
“Not exactly. I’m transversing a bad time. I was expecting a gentleman
from America who wanted me to play for him, but he is delayed,--a Mr.
Fetterstein. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
“No.”
“Well, his not comin’ has deranged me. I’ve been playin’ a little game
of my own but I ’aven’t got capital enough. This mornin’ I came up
against zero three times. A man can’t do anything against that. Now
I’m off to get a bite of lunch. Maybe things will come my way this
afternoon.”
He shambled off. Before going to his own luncheon Hugh strolled around
the gardens. Nurses were watching beautiful, well-behaved children. The
round pond mirrored the palms and pink geraniums; the little stream
was fringed by ferns and flowers and starred with water-lilies. The
green sweep of the sward was like a carpet, set with strange exotic
trees, agave and cactus and dwarf oranges. Midway there was a little
artificial ford, with gold-fishes glancing in the lazy ripples.
Yet there were jarring notes in this harmony. An old man for instance
who sat on a bench reading discarded journals. He wore eye-glasses and
had an air of dignity quite at variance with his rags. His boots were
altogether disreputable and his coat would have disgraced a decent
ash-bin. Yet it was easy to see that he had been a person of education
and refinement who had lost a fortune at the tables. Hugh took a seat
beside him.
“Well,” said the old fellow, “what do you think of it?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Hugh with fervour.
The other looked at him sarcastically.
“Beautiful, yes ... and it’s to me and the likes of me you owe it; we
pay for it; we keep it up. Take a good gaze at me, young chap, and
you’ll enjoy it all the more.” He laughed so disagreeably that Hugh
rose and left him. But the gardens did not seem as lovely as before.
4.
Hugh’s favourite walk was along the highroad that led to the Tête
du Chien. It crossed a dizzy bridge over a deep gorge in which the
washerwomen hung their linen to dry. At the mouth of this gorge, framed
in the arches of the railway bridge, was a tiny chapel, and behind it,
like a slab of lapis lazuli, the harbour. Climbing still higher the
road passed the Persian villa and reached the top of the hill. Almost
directly below were the red roofs of the Condamine.
Continuing still further the road swung into a great curve high above
Monaco, disclosing both the Rock and the sweet serenity of the sea.
Terrace upon terrace of olive trees rose to the base of the mountain.
Hugh was walking along this road one morning, admiring the beauty that
surrounded him, when suddenly he glanced down. In the dust at his feet,
fresh and glistening, was a crimson patch. “Curious,” he thought;
“those marks look as if a heavy body had fallen here.” He examined the
stone-wall and found a slight spatter of blood. A little further on, he
picked up something that made him look very thoughtful, a bit of bony
fibre, to which adhered a few dark hairs. Strange! He looked downwards,
and saw that he stood just above the Cemetery of Monaco. He found the
path and slowly descended.
He searched for some time for the suicide’s section of the cemetery
which he had been told was cunningly concealed. A great high wall
separated the lower from the upper graveyard, and built half the way
up the face of it, was another wall, the space between the two forming
a narrow shelf. There was no access to this shelf except through a
broken place in the balustrade of the stairway just large enough to
pass a coffin. As he looked down from the upper wall, Hugh saw that the
whole length of the shelf was closely packed with nameless graves. In
one place where the earth had been thrown carelessly up a rusty shovel
leaned against the wall. The air had the smell of a charnel pit.
He climbed the hill again. The place where he had seen the blood was
now quite clean. There was no trace of any disturbance. Some one had
come in his absence and tidied things up. The sky had suddenly grown
grey, grey too and sinister the mountains. He had an uneasy sense that
somewhere in the olive trees unseen eyes were watching him; that he was
being spied on and shadowed.
5.
Another day when he took this solitary walk, twilight was gathering and
the roofs of the Condamine were softened to a coral mist. The space
between the rock of Monaco and the Tête du Chien was filled with
sunset after-glow as a cup is filled with wine. The olive trees lately
twinkling in the sunshine were now mysteriously still.
When Hugh came to the highest point overlooking the town, he stopped
to rest. The rock of Monaco rose like a monster from the sea, and was
as dim and silent as a tomb. He could distinguish the courtyard of the
Palace, greyly alight, and a black stencilling of windows. A solitary
lamp revealed a turret and an ancient archway, all else was gloom. In
its austere mediæval strength the rock seemed the abode of mystery and
silence.
And Monte Carlo! Looking towards it Hugh could see nothing but light.
The mountains were pricked with patterns of light, the great hotels
were packed with light. And all seemed to concentrate in one dazzling
centre, the source from which this luxury of light flowed,--the Casino.