engagement with Mrs. Belmire. Of late she had gone out of her way to
be nice to him, and he had begun to admire her enthusiastically. He
was proud to be seen with her, and was blind to her deficiencies. She
had for him the attraction of the ripe, experienced woman for the raw,
callow youth. When she asked him to take her to Cap Martin, her request
made him simmer with joyous excitement.
He called for her in a voiture with two horses and they drove along
the shore road. She was simpler and sweeter than he had ever known
her; but, he thought, abstracted and depressed. They sat on the rocks
awhile, then had tea in the hotel. On the way home her pensiveness
increased so noticeably that at last he taxed her with it.
“I say, what’s the matter? You seem so sad to-day.”
She turned with a forced smile. “Am I? Perhaps I am. You see I’m
worried. But then what have my troubles got to do with you?”
“Oh, please tell me. Look on me as a friend.”
“Dear boy, so I do. Well, I’m in difficulties--financial difficulties.
I’ve got money coming out from England; but I’ve had such rotten luck
at baccarat lately, and a lot of little bills have been coming in, and
... well, this is all I have to meet them.”
From her vanity bag she took a tiny jewelled purse, and showed him in
its satin interior a few torn franc bills and some _sous_.
“Grotesque, isn’t it? I wouldn’t care, only there’s my week’s bill at
the pension. I’ll pull through somehow....”
Hugh thrilled with sympathy; he blushed, stammered and blurted out: “I
say, I’ve been rather lucky at the tables lately. Won’t you let me help
you ... a little loan....”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t think of it.”
“It will be a privilege. Make me happy, please, by accepting.”
“Well, if you put it that way. I know you’ve been lucky, dear boy.
You’re just too nice. Perhaps a _mille_ would tide me over.”
Hugh feverishly searched his pocket-book. Alas! he had prudently left
his big bills with Margot. All he had were some twenty ten franc notes.
“Look here, it’s too bad,” he said, “I’ve left all my money at home.
But, to-night, if you can meet me at the Café de Paris at nine, I’ll
have it.”
“I can count on that?”
“Yes.”
“You darling! I say ... there’s no one on the road. Quick. If you like,
you may kiss me.”
5.
He arrived at the Café de Paris about half past eight, keyed up and
exalted. The afternoon seemed to have added an inch to his stature.
The most charming woman in Monte!... And he had kissed her.... Having
a little time to spare he went into the Rooms. The impulse he knew so
well was luring him on.
“If I give her a _mille_,” he thought, “why not make the Casino pay for
it?”
At the first table he threw a maximum on red and won. Rather sourly
they paid him six thousand francs.
“Five thousand for me,” he said, “and a thousand for Mrs. B.”
He found her exquisitely dressed and impatiently awaiting him. His luck
had added to his excitement. He was feeling capable of any folly. He
folded up a _mille_ note very neatly and slipped it into her bag. Then
somewhat to his chagrin she excused herself.
“I’m awfully sorry. I have an engagement at the club. Probably see you
to-morrow.”
She left him feeling rather chilled and sober.
“Well,” he consoled himself, “perhaps it is just as well. In any case I
now have twenty-five thousand francs.”
He did not play for the next few days. His success rather dismayed him;
his nerve was gone. Then on two successive days a chance appeared which
was too favourable to be resisted; it was what he called a sure-shot.
As a matter of fact, it really came off in five cases out of six, but
only by watching and waiting could one get on to it. A long run on one
of the simple chances had to be followed by a certain combination of
both chances. In each case when he played it he won; his capital had
now increased to thirty-five thousand francs.
He began to feel what he had never felt in his life before,--secure.
To a rich man that sum was nothing; to him, everything. But he was
becoming increasingly nervous. He must not lose this money. He must be
more prudent than ever. If he lost it, it would discourage him utterly;
he would never have the heart to begin over again. Yet he must make the
sixty thousand on which he had set his heart. Only twenty-five thousand
more. Four wins of maximums would practically do it. Well, he must
pluck up his courage and try again. He must nerve himself for the final
struggle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BIG FIGHT
During his long spells of waiting, he became more and more intimately
acquainted with the world of the Casino,--from the prowling seeker of
the sure-shot to the holiday plunger, from the philosophic veteran with
pencil and note-book to the _nouveau riche_ spraying the table with
louis. He came to know the eternal types, the avid-eyed old women, the
blowsy, brazen matron, the cocotte throwing money away with cynical
contempt, the young girl from the convent risking her first five franc
piece.
Then the unending Casino comedies. For instance, the Honeymoon Couple
comedy. The first day she hangs on his arm while he plays. The second
day _he_ hangs on her arm while _she_ plays. The third day they
separate a little and try tiny flutters of their own. The fourth day
they get seats at the same table and advise each other as to their
play. The fifth day they get seats at separate tables, and each plays
as if the other did not exist. The sixth day she is begging him for
money, and he is refusing. The seventh day they moon round without
playing, he moody, she sulky, very near to a quarrel. Then on the
eighth day they disappear, perhaps never to be the same again.
Then there is the woman who talks to the croupier, fawning on him and
asking him how she ought to play. Sometimes the knight of the rateau
hazards a guess. If it comes off, _tant mieux_. Perhaps, it means a
tip; if it doesn’t, _tant pis_. No man is infallible.
These types repeat themselves endlessly; but among them from time to
time appear strange original characters piquing the curiosity of the
public. The Casino is like a stage where they enter, play their parts,
and make their exit. Old and young, good and bad, rich and poor,--they
come and go; they lose or win; they sidle across the glossy floor under
the great white dome; they smirk and posture, wrangle and vapour. Beefy
Englishman and desiccated Yank, flatulent Frenchman and oily Italian,
morose Spaniard and bovine Swede; Jap, Chinaman, Rasta and Levantine
Jew--they mix amid the throng that surges around the whirring wheels,
and their strange tongues mingle in one confused babble.
So fantastic did it appear to Hugh that at times he rubbed his eyes
and wondered if it could be real. How he wished he were a writer. If
only he could see into their hearts, know their histories, pick their
brains, what books he could write, a library of books, a document of
humankind that would outweigh the works of Balzac and Zola combined.
He became better acquainted with daily frequenters of the Casino and
watched them with unceasing amusement. There was one, a Greek, a
grossly fat man with three chins and a promontory of greasy waistcoat.
On his pudgy hand he wore rubies as large as walnuts; and as he walked
from table to table, laying _mille_ placques on the dozens he never
ceased to perspire. The tall woman in grey also attracted him. She was
always gloved, always veiled. She played with persistency her game on
number one, losing or winning with apparent indifference. Who was she?
She went from table to table with the strangeness and mystery of a
specter.
His attention was drawn irresistibly to the very tall man with the
spade-shaped beard, who, he had learned, was a Brazilian diplomat. His
name was Doctor Bergius and he was said to be of mixed Spanish and
German parentage. From the moment he had entered the Rooms, the doctor
had become a dominating personality. He was as straight as a shoot of
bamboo, with a high carriage and an eye of piercing command. His long
nose resembled the beak of a vulture of the Andes; his brow retreated
from his piercing black eyes and his skin was as coppery as that of
an Indian. He always dressed with immaculate care. He never played,
but looking gravely on, with his hands behind his back, appeared only
remotely interested in the game.
Then there was another man who attracted Hugh, partly because he was
so graceful and handsome, partly because he had once broken the bank.
He was an Italian called Castelli, of medium height and well-shaped
figure. He had the olive skin, dark velvety eyes, and the perfect
features often found in men who prey on women. He always had women with
him. He played a dashing game, superbly indifferent to loss or gain.
Hugh was conscious of an atmosphere of unceasing suspicion. Every day
hundreds of false louis were foisted on the bank, and no one knew how
it was done. It was impossible to check them. Most of the players were
too lazy to cash in before leaving the Casino and the chips continued
to circulate in town as freely as money. The Casino inspectors were up
on their toes, every one was being watched.
One day there came to him the mood for which he was waiting, the
conquering mood. His nerves were of steel, and he felt that he could
win a fortune or lose all without turning a hair. He had in his pockets
seven packets of five thousand francs each. He sat down at the suicide
table and began to play.
It was strange how confident he was. Something was fighting on his
side. He could not be beaten. Then to his dismay, he lost the first
_coup_, but won the three following. Again he lost a _coup_, but gained
another two. And so it went on. The scales dipped, now for, now against
him. On the whole, however, fortune favoured him, and he steadily drew
ahead.
At last the great battle was on. He felt inspired. Silently he sat,
watchful, emotionless as a wax figure. His eyes became opaque; and a
crease of concentration came between his brows.
“A big game,” the rumour spread. “Come and see.”
The circle of watchers deepened and their interest increased. But to
Hugh they were only a dull blur of meaningless faces. No, not all, for
he saw one that thrilled him for a moment. It was that of Mrs. Belmire.
Then her too he forgot in the stress of the struggle.
And it was in reality a struggle. The bank had abandoned its attitude
of disdain, and was directly fighting him. No longer was he a petty
“piker” but a foeman worth while. He felt that the eight silent men in
black who ran the table were concentrating their wills against his.
Psychology was coming into play. He willed that that capricious little
ball should go one way; these eight willed it to take another. He would
beat them; he would make the ball go where he wanted it to go.
He waited until it was spun; and then, acting from sheer impulse, threw
a packet of notes on one of the simple chances. Sometimes he even
threw on two chances. The battle swayed. He advanced, he retreated, but
only to advance again.
As the spirit of the fight glowed in him, his play increased in
boldness. If he fell he would fall gloriously. For once he had the
centre of the stage. He would be worthy of the part, of the audience.
He began to play on all three simple chances. He won ... and won again.
Fortune favoured the brave. Hurrah for the big game! Again a triple
shot. Ha! he had lost one of the three that time.... Well, the next
time. The grey croupier who was paying did not look at all pleased. No
wonder! Handing out _mille_ notes continually from the little grilled
box. And the _chef de parti_ was scowling at the little chap who
twirled the ball. Hugh won another _coup_, another fifteen thousand.
“_Messieurs, le boule passe._”
The cowards! They were changing the croupier who threw the ball. That
one was too unlucky. What a stack of notes he had. Must be nearly a
hundred thousand. Ah, the devil! this new man was beating him. He had
lost ... lost ... lost. His stack was diminishing. His luck had turned.
He heard people asking: “Why doesn’t he stop?” No, he would win back
again ... win back. He was dazed. He scarcely knew what he was doing.
He was reaching out to play another time when a hand gripped his arm.
“You darned young fool, quit now. Quit while you’re still to the good.”
It was Mr. Gimp. The American dragged him away from the table, followed
by the admiring gaze of a hundred eyes. Then in a corner they counted
the gains. With his own capital he had fifty-five thousand francs.
He sat on a leather seat in a stupor. He wanted to smoke a cigarette,
to go home, but did not have energy enough. Then, when he was finally
starting the stranger’s door swung open and Professor Durand made his
first entrance into the Rooms.
CHAPTER NINE
THE PROFESSOR BEGINS
1.
The professor advanced with an impressive dignity. Even the two
blue-coated attendants who guarded the middle portal stared and gaped.
They were used to strange figures, but never had they seen a stranger.
The professor wore a black frock-coat of a bygone day. He carried a
brigandish hat in one hand, and a cane with an ebony knob in the other.
His silvery hair coiled over his shoulders; his deep, broad beard was
patriarchal; he walked with a slow, deliberate step. Every one turned
to look at him as he passed.
“It’s Father Christmas,” said a man, and everybody tittered. The name
stuck.
But the professor paid no attention to them. He seemed to know just
what he wanted to do. He went straight to the table favoured by the
system-player, the one next the “Opium Dream Room”, and handed five
francs to the sour old lady who takes down the numbers for the Monte
Carlo Revue. Promptly she gave him her place.
“Come,” said Hugh to Mr. Gimp, “I know the old chap. He’s queer. Let’s
watch him.”
Others too were hastening to watch, and expectancy was in the air. The
professor seemed entirely unconscious of the interest he aroused. He
carefully installed himself, then took from an inner pocket a long red
note-book and a pencil. He asked the old lady to show him her numbers,
and copied down the last dozen. Then taking out thirty thousand francs
in bills he demanded counters. There was something so elaborately
pretentious in these preparations that even the croupiers looked at one
another, though they did not lose their contemptuous smiles.
The professor peered through his silver rimmed spectacles at the
numbers and sat for awhile, taking down the fresh ones as they
occurred, and consulting carefully his long red note-book. Finally he
stood up with an air of decision, and put the maximum on thirty-two in
every possible way,--en plein, chevals, carrés, transversals, dozens
columns, simple chances. When he had finished he had on the table about
twenty-five thousand francs. Even the croupiers stared. A thrill of
excitement ran through the circle of watchers, but the least moved was
the old man. He leaned back and waited with calm confidence for the
spin. It came. It was the number thirty-four. He had lost.
Not all, though. It is true he had missed the number, but he had got
the three simple chances, the dozen, a transversal double, a carée. He
had won about ten thousand francs.
The croupiers shrugged their shoulders. People looked at each other
with eyes that said, “Fool’s luck!” The professor again consulted his
notes. He seemed a little nonplussed. He allowed three _coups_ to go
by without playing, then on the fourth he rose again and built his
maximums about the thirty-two.
The croupiers seemed now to realize the dramatic value of the
situation. The spinner turned the wheel solemnly as if it were a sacred
rite; there was a tense moment, then a thrill ran through the crowd.
In a voice that trembled with chagrin the croupier called out:
“_Trente deux, rouge pair et passe._”
The old man had won. They paid him carefully and ostentatiously. He
gathered the notes in a worn leather wallet, put his note-book and
pencil back into his inner pocket, rose and went away. A crowd followed
him to the door; inspectors gathered in groups and talked; directors
looked down from upper windows. Never had there been such a sensational
_début_.
“It’s fantastic,” said Hugh. “What with my own luck and the professor’s
you could bowl me over with a feather. I want to indulge in hysterical
laughter.”
“Better indulge in a brandy and soda,” said Mr. Gimp. “I’ll see you
home after.”
2.
Hugh found Margot embroidering a piece of white silk. He marvelled at
the delicate patience of her fingers.
“How jolly nice. What’s it for?”
“A blouse.”
“Good. You’ll look ripping in that.”
“You think so?... but it’s not for me.”
“Not for you!”
“No, you see, I’ve got some sewing to do. I might as well. I have many
spare hours each day. I am trying to make a little money. It’s that
nice _lingerie_ shop near the Hotel de Paris.”
“Good Heavens! And how much can you make at that?”
“About five francs a day.”
“The deuce! What would you say if I told you that to-day I had made
fifty thousand?”
“You didn’t....”
“I did. It’s true I lost some of it afterwards. Ah! if I’d only stopped
in time. But I hung on to thirty thousand.”
Eagerly he took out his sheaf of bills, and spread them before her.
“There! I’ve fifty-five thousand, only five short of the sixty.”
She looked frightened. She laid her hand on his.
“You’ll stop now. Please say you’ll stop.”
“No, I want sixty.”
She was silent, staring with troubled eyes before her, her embroidery
in her lap.
“Wake up,” he laughed. “You’re in a trance. What are you thinking
of,--your dowry?”
“No, of that rose-covered cottage.”
“Oh, that.... I say, you’re not going on with that embroidery for the
sake of making a measly five francs a day?”
“Why not? It’s _clean_ money.”
“Don’t you think this money is clean?”
“No, I might have thought so once; but now ... I’ve had my lesson.”
“I haven’t. It’s good enough for me. Why, it would take me twenty years
to save this money in the usual way, and make a wreck of me at the same
time. Life’s too hard a battle. We can’t afford to choose our weapons.”
A knock came at the door. It was Professor Durand. The old man had
doffed his dignity, and was in slippers and a dressing-gown. He bowed
profoundly to Margot, then he said to Hugh with a benevolent smile:
“I saw a light and thought you might have returned. I am lonely. I
wonder if you would care to come to my den and smoke a pipe.”
Hugh followed the old man. The room surprised him. There was a steel
safe in one corner, a large cabinet, a broad table covered with papers
on which were algebraic formulæ and geometrical figures.
“My workshop,” said the professor. “You saw me to-day? Eh, what!”
“Yes, I congratulate you. You made a wonderful beginning.”
“No, I’m not satisfied. My timing was out. To-morrow I’ll do better.
I’ll only play once, but I’ll hit it.”
The professor spoke with such conviction that Hugh was impressed.
“Extraordinary! A marvellous system. A discovery.”
“No, not a discovery, an invention. Just as logarithms was an
invention. But remember, it took me twenty years to perfect it with
all the resources of the higher mathematics at my command. Twenty
years! Come, take that easy chair and light up. I’m going to give you a
liqueur, some very old Chartreuse; and we’ll talk.”
The professor, however, did most of the talking. “Look,” said he, “at
that stack of green volumes. You have there the records of table number
two for the past thirteen years. I know that table like a living thing,
and yet I never saw it until to-day.”
“I suppose,” said Hugh, “that you base your system on the law of
average?”
The professor laughed tolerantly. “No, I don’t. Law of average,--that
is child’s talk to me. Of course every table has its average, every
wheel has its average, every croupier, you, I; every _coup_ that is
played, is an average with something that has gone before. Ah! these
foolish system-players with their talk of average and probability and
phenomenon. Why, every _coup_ is a phenomenon as regards something that
has gone before. These things don’t exist. They are sounding terms that
mean nothing. No, the trouble is that all these students of the laws
of chance go about it wrongly. Their systems are analytic, mine is
synthetic.”
“Do you claim that it is infallible?”
“By no means. You saw me fail to-day. What I do claim is that I will
succeed one time out of three.”
“That’s good enough.”
“Good enough to ruin the bank. I won’t stop till I have taken a hundred
millions from them. Don’t think I want the money. I won’t touch one
_sou_ of it.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I am a patriot. My country is in trouble, in debt. I will give it all
to my country.”
“But why do you hate the Casino? Is it revenge?”
“No, retribution. My only son came here, played, lost all ... he’s
dead. Now you know the brutal truth. I did not intend to tell any one.
It’s painful even after twenty years....”
“I understand....”
“Well, you’ll see me play to-morrow. I’ll take my seat at three o’clock
sharp.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. They don’t suspect, they don’t
dream. But to-morrow they will begin to be uneasy, and as I close my
hand to crush them they will be seized with panic, they will be filled
with despair. That will be the time I shall need some one to aid me,
to protect me, for I am old. I want a young man full of intelligence,
of courage, to guard me, and if need be, to carry on my work. For
instance,--_you!_ Now do you understand why I have asked you here
to-night, why I have told you all I have?... We’ll talk again of this.”
It was late when Hugh left the old man and returned to his room. Margot
was still bent over her embroidery.
“You’ll hurt your eyes,” he remonstrated; but she shook her head
obstinately.
“No, I won’t stop. I promised madame I’d finish this for to-morrow.”
3.
When he arrived at the Casino the following afternoon, he saw a crowd
collected under the great rubber tree on the edge of the “Cheese.” To
his amazement he found that it was gathered around Mrs. Fitzoswald and
her little brood. He heard exclamations such as: “The poor dears! What
a shame! Such a plucky little woman!”
Mrs. Fitz was excited. The light of battle was in her eyes. Her cheeks
were flushed. She proclaimed her wrongs to the skies.
“Yes,” she cried, pointing to the Casino, “they ruined him, the dirty
rascals. They got all his money and now they’ve thrown him into prison.
A _mutilé_ of the war; a man who has given his leg for freedom, thrown
into prison like a criminal. But I’ll have justice. I’ll stand here
till they release him. Look at his innocent children, without food,
without shelter.”
At this the three little girls, aged seven, five and three, began to
weep and cling to her. Only the baby in the arms of June Emslie was
unmoved, laughing and chuckling at the world.
June explained to Hugh what the trouble was. Major Fitzoswald, it
seemed, was expecting money from England and had issued a cheque
against it for the rent of his apartment. Unfortunately the money
was delayed and the cheque was refused. The landlord appealed to the
authorities, who decided to make an example of the major. There had
been similar cases and they felt that the citizens must be protected.
So two very gorgeous gendarmes had driven Major Fitzoswald to the Rock
of Monaco and presumably thrown him into its deepest dungeon. Meanwhile
the landlord had put his wife and children on the street.
The English and American colony had been scandalized; it was equivalent
to a national insult. They had offered to pay the amount of the cheque
ten times over, but the authorities were adamant.
“No,” they had said pompously; “the law must take its course.”
Both the English and American Consuls had been appealed to and had done
their best to get the Major released but without result. Public opinion
was aroused; prominent men had interviewed the administration, but all
to no purpose. The one-legged Major continued to languish in his cell.
Then it was that Mrs. Fitz had come into action and, planting herself
with her brood in front of the grand entrance, she cried her woes to
the world. A sympathetic crowd gathered, black looks were thrown at the
temple of chance, and its all-powerful administration were objurgated.
Every one was competing to aid the unfortunate victims. Hugh saw Mr.
Fetterstein, the multi-millionaire, descend the steps of the Hotel
de Paris, and, to the scandal of the flunkeys, take back with him the
whole bedraggled family for luncheon.
As Hugh entered the Casino he found Mr. Gimp in his usual place between
the two pillars at the entrance of the atrium.