life as you have. I’ve always been poor. I’m poor now. I want to think
you are my little sister, and I am your big brother. You must do the
same.”
“I’ll try. Please give me a little time. Perhaps, it will be easier.”
“All right. And now please come here. I’d like you to look at
something.”
He was sitting at the table with a big green book before him. Each page
was filled with columns and columns of figures. His face was eager, his
eyes sparkling.
“You know, I’m going to begin playing to-morrow.”
“Oh, please don’t. It’s terrible how it gets a hold of you. And in the
end it always means ruin.”
“You don’t know me. I’m a pretty obstinate sort of chap. I’m going to
gamble. Maybe I wanted to do so all along, and only waited for the
excuse you’ve given me.”
“What excuse?”
“To win back the money you lost.”
“You’re not going to gamble on my account.”
“Of course, I am.”
“I will refuse to take the money.”
“All the same I am going to win it.”
“After that you’ll stop?”
“I don’t know.... There, don’t be so frightened. Come closer and look
at these figures.”
On a sheet of paper he had made the following diagram:
[Illustration]
“The seven dots,” he explained, “represent a run of seven or more on
any of the simple chances. The run breaks as you see, then returns
once again. It’s a well-known formation. Well, I’ve got to get that
before I begin to play.”
“But it doesn’t happen very often,--only three or four times at a table
in the course of the day’s play.”
“Yes, but I have the run of all the tables, fourteen of them. I can
range the whole place. By glancing over the shoulders of those who are
taking numbers, I can tell if there is anything in my line. When I find
the combination I am seeking, I start staking in louis the sums I have
marked.”
“You only stake one the second time....”
“Yes, that’s a buffer. I neither win nor lose if I gain that coup. I
have to do that in order to ease up on my progression. Otherwise it
would increase too rapidly. Then on the third, fourth, and fifth terms
of my progression, I stand to win a louis only, but on the sixth term
I win two louis, and on the seventh term, four. I use this progression
because I have only a hundred louis at my disposal. I want to make a
progression of seven terms, and I want my gains to increase as my stake
increases. The great defect of the ordinary martingale is that you
often find yourself obliged to risk quite a big sum to win a single
unit.”
She continued to look at the figures frowningly.
“You see,” he went on eagerly, “to beat me the bank will have to follow
up the first big run of seven or more by a second of eight, after a
single break. Now I have examined a book of the records of the play at
the second table for a whole year, and I haven’t found a single case
of this happening. So you see, I feel pretty safe. I only want to make
three wins a day, three louis. At that rate, in about seven weeks I
shall have all your money back. You can return to Paris, start your
shop, and live happily ever after. Great scheme, isn’t it?”
“What if you lose?”
“I can’t. It isn’t conceivable.”
“In roulette it’s always the inconceivable that happens.”
“No, I’m quite convinced. Armed with this system, I am going to the
Casino just as confidently as if I were going to draw money from the
bank. Of course, I know it means patience, watching, walking miles
between tables; but that will be fun. I don’t want to win too easily.”
He continued to pore over his records, and she went softly about her
work. When she had finished she looked toward him. In the shaded
lamp-light his face was joyously eager; he was tapping his white teeth
with his pencil, and his eyes were absorbed.
“Good-night,” she said timidly.
“Good-night,” he answered absently, without looking up.
2.
He worked very late over his permanencies and awoke to bright sunshine,
and the fragrance of fresh coffee.
He had divided the room in two by a heavy green curtain. The part with
the door and the little _cabinet de cuisine_ was the living part; the
other was for sleeping. This he had divided still further by a grey
curtain so that they each had a little compartment with a bed. The girl
seemed doubtful of this arrangement at first.
“I don’t see why it matters,” he said indignantly, “whether there is a
curtain or a three foot wall between us. Remember we are brother and
sister. Honour and decency are better protectors than bolts and bars.”
With this fine sentiment he disposed of her objections. There was no
doubt he thoroughly believed it; and when he retired more or less
weary behind his curtain, he slept as calmly as if he were alone in the
room.
On this particular morning, having slept late and well, he rose
light-heartedly, singing as he dressed. When he entered that part of
the room that served them in common, he found that Margot had set his
breakfast on the table, and was preparing to go to market. She was
dressed like the women of the country, with a shawl over her bright
hair. Each morning she would ask him:
“What would you like for lunch?”
“Oh, anything; I don’t care.”
“No, don’t say you don’t care. You know I like to please you.”
Then he would think profoundly. “I tell you what, ... Give me ... a
surprise.”
With a gesture of despair she would go away. She was rather a good
cook, but he seldom noticed what he ate. Now he stopped her as she was
going out. “Had your breakfast?”
“Oh, yes, long ago.”
“I wish you would call me in the morning so that we can take it
together. I like you to talk to me while I’m eating. Sit down and talk
now. You’re not in such a hurry. Come, take a cigarette.”
“You know I never smoke.”
“I wish you would. It’s so chummy. Anyway, sit down. That’s right.
Your hair’s lovely when it glistens in the sunshine. You know, you’re
looking ever so much better already. Your chin is getting round, and
there is actually a delicate rose colour in your cheeks. Your face is
far more English than French. Some day if you’ll pose for me, I’ll
paint you. This coffee’s awfully nice....” As he rattled on in his gay
manner, the girl listened with a grave smile. There was a curious look
in her eyes, a tenderness almost maternal.
“I say,” he went on, “I didn’t tell you I went to the Pension Paoli
yesterday. I had a talk with Terese, the black-eyed Terese. She gave me
some news.”
“Yes, what?”
“You remember that unsavoury sort of a chap who made such a bad
impression on everybody,--I used to call him the Rat.”
“I never liked him.”
“Well, do you know what the mystery was that seemed to surround him?
The poor harmless fellow was a priest, a _curé_ who had slipped
away from his flock, dressed in everyday clothes, and was having a
good time. I don’t blame him, poor devil. He wanted to be free, to
taste life just once, before going back to his black skirts and his
prayer-book. I expect he’s doing bitter penance for it now. He was
recognized by an old abbé and there was no end of a row. He was haled
off by two burly priests, crying like a child.”
“It just shows how one should never judge people.”
“And you remember those two Swede women?”
“They enjoyed eating so much.”
“Yes, and they declared some one had entered their room and stolen
money? That, too, was wrong. The mother came the other day to the
pension and told madame the money had been found. The girl had put it
between the pages of a very dull novel. When she came to finish the
book she found the bills. So all’s well that ends well.” The girl said
nothing. She remembered that he had once suspected her of taking this
money, and the thought still pained her. “Come on,” he continued gaily,
“let’s go out together. Remember to-day I leap into the arena. To-day
I make my début as a gambler.”
3.
It was half past ten when Hugh entered the Casino.
The Rooms in the forenoon presented a very different aspect from the
one with which he was familiar. The air, though stagnant, was not
obnoxious. The rumble of voices was subdued to a discreet hum. Only
five roulette tables were running. Every one had an air of knowing
every one else. In place of the fever and scrabble of the afternoon
there was a suave and amiable courtesy. The regular Monte Carloites
were taking advantage of the morning calm to play their systems. Hugh
stood by the table where the majority of the system-players were. They
were mostly ageing men, neatly dressed, bespectacled, business-like.
The records in their tiny note-books were scrupulously kept from day to
day. They played but seldom, and then generally with flat stakes. At
the end of the season their books showed probably only modest gains.
The little old lady who took down the numbers for the Monte Carlo
Gazette worked at this table. Every day, year after year, she sat
there, dressed in rusty black, looking rather sour. She made quite a
lot of money by giving up her place for a small consideration to any
who would pay for it.
Next to Hugh stood a very shabby old man. His trousers were baggy and
frayed, his braid-trimmed coat of a pattern of a bygone day. He had
a weak chin, bulging eyes, a heavy grey moustache, and a curious air
of faded gentility. He had been pointed out to Hugh as an Italian
nobleman, the Count Viviano, who had gambled away all his estates and
now lived on a small pension. The old man stood for a long time gazing
at the table in a strangely absorbed manner. Hugh, who saw things with
an artist’s eye, noticed that his hands had big veins and a glazed
look. They trembled almost constantly and were the only sign of emotion
in a figure otherwise calm.
Suddenly the old man began to fumble in the pocket of his waistcoat
and drew forth a blue oblong placque representing a thousand francs.
He waited till the ball had been spun, then reaching over unsteadily,
placed it on the first dozen. He tried to look unconcerned. He lost.
Again the ball was spun and again Hugh saw him fumble, draw out another
pale blue placque, and place it tremblingly on the same dozen as
before. Again he lost. The next time he put a blue placque on both the
first and second dozen. Alas! the third dozen came. He seemed in doubt
whether to stay or go away. His agitation was pitiable. Again the ball
was spun. Many looked at him to see what he would do. Just at the last
moment, he drew from another pocket two more blue placques, and put
one on the first dozen, the other on the third. Was ever such infernal
luck! The second dozen won.
Curious and commiserating glances were cast at him.
The old count looked dazed. With shaking hands he took from the inside
of his coat a shabby pocket-book and drew from it all the money it
contained, a hundred franc note and a few small ones. He threw them on
the first dozen. Again he lost. He was broke.
And as he stood there like a man in a dream, as if to mock him, the
first dozen came again and again. Six times it repeated, and each time
the man seemed to grow older, more crushed, more hopelessly stricken.
He continued to look at the table as if fascinated; then, with the
saddest face Hugh had ever seen, he slowly left the room.
Another figure now attracted the attention of the onlookers. A
tall man was plastering the table with louis and Hugh recognized
Mr. Fetterstein. He looked the typical captain of industry, solid,
powerful, dominating. His face, slightly Jewish in type, was bold,
and massive. His eyes changed from a twinkle of amusement to a look
of profound concentration. There was something unshakable about him.
He played imperturbably. When he lost, he laughed; when he gained,
he seemed indifferent. At present he was winning. He had covered the
number fourteen and all its combinations. Fourteen came. He repeated,
again putting the maximum on fourteen. There was a murmur. Fourteen
again. Once more he put the maximum on fourteen. The croupier who spun
the ball looked nervous and worried. The _Chef_ looked at him with a
frown, as if to say, “There are thirty-five other numbers. As you value
your promotion avoid the fourteen.” Again the man spun. A great shout
went up.... _Fourteen_.
As he was paid with the usual impressive deliberation, Mr. Fetterstein
folded up the wad of _mille_ notes he had gained and put them away.
He had won over thirty thousand francs,--but what was that to him, a
millionaire? He went on playing, but the croupier who had been throwing
was changed.
Hugh saw many people whom he knew, among them the Calderbrook
family. The ladies were playing a lively game and, even this early
in the morning, looked rather excited. On his way out, he passed the
forlorn Emslie girl in the atrium, waiting for her mother, and in the
vestibule, he encountered Mr. Gimp rolling a cigarette. The little man
nodded curtly. His puckered pink face and his snowy white hair gave the
impression of frostiness.
When Hugh reached home he said to Margot:
“You know, I was so interested watching every one I forgot to play.
Well, this afternoon....”
4.
In the afternoon the trains and yellow busses from Nice had disgorged
their tourist hordes and turned the Casino into a welter of humid
humanity. There were cheap-trippers taking a flutter, skimmers from the
slums of Nice, sight-seers from every land under the sun, flaunting
_femmes de luxe_, evil faces of the underworld,--the whole mob of
strange invaders which a Monte Carloite finds so little to his liking.
As fourteen tables were running, Hugh soon found an opportunity to try
his system. He made three wins in the course of two hours. In neither
case had he to fall back on his progression. He was elated and having
finished for the day, amused himself by making sketches of the crowd.
By and by he wandered to the first trente-et-quarante table where a big
game was going on. An American millionairess was playing as high as the
limit allowed. She had before her a heap of pink placques, like cakes
of soap, representing five thousand francs each; she tossed them around
as carelessly as if they had no value. At one end of the table, Hugh
noticed a tall distinguished-looking Englishman with an eye-glass; at
the other, the Twitcher.
Hugh was admiring the superb insouciance of the American woman, who
had lost twenty-five thousand francs in five minutes when he suddenly
saw the Twitcher throw a bundle of mille notes on the red. There were
evidently twelve of them, a maximum. By Jove! the Twitcher certainly
was going it! Hugh watched with breathless interest. At the same time
he saw the Englishman throw a similar sum on the black. The table was
covered with big notes and placques. Every one awaited the turn of the
cards with breathless interest.
“_Couleur perd._”
The Twitcher had lost his twelve thousand francs. His face grew very
pale. Then he reached forward. Just as the croupier was about to rake
in his wad of bills he grabbed them up again, and crammed them into his
pocket.
“I made a mistake,” he announced calmly. “I meant to play on black.”
“But Monsieur has lost....”
“I don’t care. I’ve got my money back. If you want to get it, you will
have to take it from me. But I warn you I will make a desperate fight
for it. It is all I have in the world. If I lose it, I am ruined. I
will then kill myself. All I have, I have lost in this cursed den of
thieves. You won’t get this without a struggle. And again, I warn you,
I am armed.”
The crowd fell back, seemingly admiring his daring. Two lackeys in blue
and gold advanced threateningly, but the Twitcher put his hand to his
hip pocket in a significant fashion.
“Look out,” he said quietly. “I am going away. If any one lays a hand
on me I will defend myself.”
Then with a leisurely gait and air of triumph he walked out of the
Casino.
The whole thing was over in a moment. The inspectors came crowding
round. The floor director, a bandy-legged, pot-bellied man with a
stubby grey beard, hurried up; he was joined by another man with goggle
eyes and a face like a mulatto. They talked, gesticulated, shrugged
their shoulders. There was nothing to be done. A fracas on the floor of
the Casino, that was inconceivable! Legally they could not claim the
money. It was a gambling debt. Let it go!
So the storm subsided. The croupiers recovered from their stupefaction.
They raked in the other winnings and paid the winners. Among the latter
was the tall Englishman who had played on black. He did not seem to
understand French. He kept saying: “Mo-ah! Mo-ah!” and point to his
stake. They paid him one by one twelve crisp bills of one thousand
francs each. He deliberately folded up the notes and went away.
That evening Hugh returned from a walk by way of Beausoleil. Outside
of a café of the lower sort, he saw two men smoking. In spite of the
darkness, he recognized the Twitcher and the tall Englishman. Hugh was
so curious, that he sat down and ordered something to drink. He had not
waited long when two men approached from the other direction. They were
Bob Bender and the detective Krantz. Bob stepped before the drinking
couple.
“Well, you brought it off,” he said in a not unfriendly way.
The tall Englishman laughed. “Yes, damn you, we got twelve thousand out
of you.”
Krantz stepped forward. “Let me congratulate you, gentlemen. It is not
every one gets ahead of us so easily. But we do not forget. I would
strongly advise you to go away immediately.” Again the Englishman
laughed.
“Bah! What do we care for you now? We have crossed the frontier.
We are on French soil. We snap our fingers at your little tin-pot
Principality.”
Krantz smiled pleasantly. He spoke in his silky voice, rubbing his
hands together. Again Hugh noticed that the little finger of the right
was missing.
“We know all about you,” he purred. “We have your record in France,
England, America. We don’t want you here. You had better get out.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Refuse! Well....” Krantz rubbed his hands still harder and continued
in his cheerful, chirping way, “Listen....” With his lips he blew a
shrill, peculiar whistle. From the shadow across the road half a dozen
dark shapes detached themselves.
“After all,” said Krantz, “the frontier is very near, the other side of
the street, to be precise. It would be easy to take you over there by
force. Once we have you, ... there’s no saying what might happen.”
The Englishman made a grimace. He seemed to reflect. Finally he banged
his hand on the table.
“You go to hell,” he said.
Krantz blandly said good-night, and taking Bob Bender by the arm went
quietly away. The mysterious shadows across the street melted again
into the deeper shadow. But the Twitcher and the Englishman did not
laugh any more. Presently the Englishman rose.
“I expect he’s right. We’d better go.”
Hugh went thoughtfully homeward.
“Well, that’s one system,” he said to himself, “that will take some
beating.”
5.
In the weeks that followed he had no difficulty in making his three
louis a day, and in no case did he need to go beyond the fourth term
of his progression. It was sometimes difficult to find the combination
necessary for his _coup_; but once he found it, he played with an
almost mechanical assurance and considered the louis of gain as good as
in his pocket. He had earned it.
His favourite among the rooms was the “Hall of the Three Graces.” It
was brilliant with many mirrors, and the chandeliers were like cascades
of light. The air was better too. At the end table, sitting directly
under the Three Graces, Mr. MacTaggart played his system. His grave air
of a church elder seemed to be a standing reproach to what he called,
“Them shameless hussies above ma heid.”
In the pauses between play, Hugh became familiar with the strange
characters of the place. He knew them by their nicknames, and made
sketches of them in his note-book. He never wearied of watching these
_détraqués_ of the game. He would sit for hours on one of the couches
of padded leather, forgetting to play in his absorbed interest.
Often after he had gained his “day,” he would escape from the fetid
air of the Rooms, from the sordid eyes in the mean faces, from the
monotony of excitement, and seek a quiet corner of the Café de Paris.
There he would sit and smoke, pervaded by a sense of utter content: his
strenuous moment over. The Casino was paying for his tea, his cakes.
The Casino was his banker, his provider, a charitable institution
erected for his benefit. He looked at it, so peaceful in the afternoon
sunlight. No hint of the scrabbling mob behind its biscuit-coloured
walls.
Perhaps after all it was not so black as they painted it. Perhaps it
did not do all the harm they claimed. People amused themselves, lost
money they could afford to lose, went away satisfied. No, it was a very
charming institution indeed. It was very good to him. It would give him
all the money he wanted. He was drunk with success. He loved the place.
Then suddenly ... _woof!_ his system went all to pieces.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SMILES AND FROWNS OF FORTUNE
1.
“I say, Margot, I think I’ll go to the Casino to-night.”
The girl looked at him in surprise. It had been his habit after supper
to light his pipe and read until bedtime, or else work at his eternal
permanencies. She had enjoyed these quiet evenings in the glow of the
shaded lamp, bending over a bit of embroidery, listening to the puff of
his pipe, and the rustle of his Daily Mail.
“I didn’t make the ‘necessary’ to-day,--only a couple of louis. The
Rooms were so squalid I got a beast of a headache, and had to take a
walk on the hill. I’ll get that extra win this evening.”
“Oh, please don’t go. Something tells me if you do you’ll be unlucky.”
“Nonsense. It’s not a question of luck. My system is misfortune proof.
Luck or no luck it will win. If you are lonely, why don’t you go to the
cinema, and amuse yourself?”
But Margot did not want to go out, so with a last glance at her sweet
face under its coils of gold he left the room.
“Good little sort,” he thought. “I’m really getting very fond of her.”
As he emerged from the huddle of houses, a moon the shape and colour
of a musk melon was rising from the sea. The two cement arms of the
harbour held in their closed fists the harbour lights, one emerald, the
other ruby.
“The green of hope,” he thought, “aye, and the crimson of tragedy.”
He walked slowly up the steep hill, reflecting that three months ago
he would have climbed it only with an effort. How this place had
bucked him up! He must be careful though. Too much Casino, bad air,
excitement,--that was already affecting him. Witness his splitting
headache that afternoon. He doubted, though, if he could stay away
from it now. It certainly got one,--roulette! The great wheel which
symbolized all the smaller wheels whirled you helplessly with it! It
was like an eddy in which the players were circling, getting nearer and
nearer the centre, until ... down to ruin. Ah! the Wheel! the Wheel! In
the evening he found the Casino quite different from the rest of the
day. The asthmatic system-players of the morning were in their beds;
the cheap-trippers and skimmers of the afternoon had returned to Nice;
only four roulette tables were running and the quietness was almost
startling.
This was the time when the great hotels poured forth their streams
of wealth and fashion, the hour of the _élite_. Seated on one of the
yellow divans beside the money changing booths, he watched the parade.
The men wore dinner jackets and their faces were flushed with wine.
They had been playing golf or tennis, or motoring in long, luxurious
cars; now armed with tickets for the private rooms they came to cap the
day with the excitement of losing a few hundred louis. With sparkling
eyes and a fluttering air of excitement, their women followed them.
Some of them were half naked, like savages. Many had the arms of
washerwomen and the speckled shoulders of kitchen maids. Others were
skraggy, with flat greenish busts and stringy necks. Each sought to
outvie the other in the gorgeousness of her raiment. There were robes
of shimmering beads, robes of rich brocade, robes of delicate lace,
robes of exquisite embroidery, robes trimmed with gold, and robes hung
with lustrous sequins. There were old ugly women in lovely dresses,
worthless women with small fortunes on their backs. This luxury and
extravagance had something barbaric about it. Hugh had never seen
anything like it before. It seemed as if these people had dressed up
purposely to amuse him.
“Who toils to keep it up?” he wondered. “What suffering and sacrifice
lies behind it? It’s enough to make a chap turn socialist.”