The moment Lily found herself alone with M. Popeau, forming part of the
crowd of walkers who were all on their way to the Casino, she exclaimed,
a little nervously, “Wasn’t it an extraordinary coincidence that Beppo
Polda should have _exactly_ the same gold snuff-box as that which poor
Mr. Ponting bought from an old woman gambler?”
“Extraordinary indeed,” answered the Frenchman drily. “I wish you’d ask
him the exact date of his purchase of it, Mademoiselle.”
“I will,” said Lily. Then something prompted her to add, “I hope you
like Beppo Polda? I can’t quite make him out, yet he seems so very much
nicer than I expected him to be.”
M. Popeau evaded her question. “I agree with you,” he said; “he is very
much nicer than one would expect the son of either his father or his
mother to be. Also, Mademoiselle, he is extremely, quite exceptionally,
handsome.”
He looked down at her thoughtfully. “No man can ever tell,” he said;
“not even the extremely foolish man who prides himself on his knowledge
of the feminine heart, how far good looks influence—or don’t influence—a
woman when she is considering a member of my sex!”
Lily laughed, and blushed. The problem had never been put to her before.
“I suppose one can’t help being rather affected by a human being’s
outward appearance,” she answered; then added, with a little smile on
her pretty face: “At any rate, _men_ are very much influenced by
appearance, aren’t they, M. Popeau?”
“I’m afraid that can’t be denied! But tell me—if you don’t think the
question indiscreet—does a young lady ever look at a good-looking man,
and long to know him? That, I need hardly tell you, is what many a
man—nay, almost every man—does do at times with regard to a beautiful
woman!”
“I can’t imagine any nice girl feeling like that about an entire
stranger,” began Lily hesitatingly.
“What a wonderful word is that English word ‘nice’!” said M. Popeau
reflectively. “It may mean such a very great deal, or nothing at all. It
is—it is——”
“I know exactly what you mean,” exclaimed Lily. “The word ‘nice’ is
certainly a _camouflage_ word!”
“That’s it!” cried M. Popeau, delighted. “You’ve put it exactly,
Mademoiselle! But supposing I were to tell you—to return to what we were
talking about—that there are very, very few _nice_ girls in the world?”
“I shouldn’t believe you!” cried Lily stoutly.
“Supposing I were also to tell you,” went on M. Popeau gravely, “that a
great many women you would probably describe as nice do not only pick
out a handsome man and feel that they would like to know him, but that
they go further—that sometimes they actually make the first advances,
and _do_ strike up some kind of acquaintance with him? Supposing I were
to _prove_ that to you?”
Lily looked and felt uncomfortable. She did not quite know what to say.
“Take your cousin, Count Beppo Polda,” went on M. Popeau meditatively.
“I should think that ever since he reached man’s estate he has
been—shall we say pursued?—by pretty ladies desiring his friendship. Any
girl who marries Beppo Polda must make up her mind to endure the
torments of jealousy. I suspect,” said M. Popeau, looking down into
Lily’s open, flushed, ingenuous, and, yes, exceedingly pretty face,
“that you, Mademoiselle, are among the few happy human beings in Monte
Carlo who really do not know what jealousy is?”
Lily hesitated. “It’s quite true,” she said slowly; “I don’t remember
ever feeling jealous—not really jealous!”
M. Popeau drew a long breath. “That shows you have never been in love,”
he said quietly. “But to return to Count Beppo. I happen to know that he
is acquainted with one lady who very often does him the honour of being
jealous of him.”
“Poor Beppo!” said Lily. “How horrid for him!” Then—for this little bit
of gossip interested her very much—“Is Beppo in love, M. Popeau?”
“He has been in love for a very long time,” answered her companion
gravely.
Lily felt thrilled, and yes, just a trifle disappointed.
“Do you mean,” she said, “that Beppo is engaged? If so, I’m sure his
parents don’t know it.”
“Engaged? Oh no”; the Frenchman looked curiously surprised. “When I said
that Count Beppo Polda is in love, I mean the phrase in a general sense.
He is in love with love——”
“Oh! Is that all?” Lily felt relieved.
M. Popeau went on: “The Count, for the moment, is what you call in
England fancy free. Still, he is now absorbed in a very important
quest—that of finding for himself a rich wife. Meanwhile he, of course,
amuses himself——” he said the words in a very significant tone, and Lily
blushed a deep, unbecoming blush. She felt a little indignant. She
realised that M. Popeau thought that Beppo would flirt with her, and
that she, Lily, would not be able to help falling in love with him!
They walked on in silence.
Hercules Popeau was a shrewd student of human nature, but this simple
English girl was to him a real enigma. Was she aware, for instance, that
Angus Stuart was deeply in love with her? And if the answer to this was
“yes,” how did she, on her side, regard the young soldier?
He had made it his business during the last few days to find out
whatever there was to be found out about Count Beppo Polda. Among his
best secret agents during the war had been a Frenchwoman living in Rome.
He had got in touch with her yesterday afternoon, and she had at once
told him the little there was to tell about the young man. Hercules
Popeau had been almost disappointed to find that, as reputations go, in
that curious cosmopolitan world which has its social centre in Rome,
Count Beppo Polda had by no means a bad reputation. In fact, he was
popular both with men—for he was a good sportsman—and with women.
But there was a certain mystery as to how he lived. He had been brought
up as an entirely idle man of pleasure. At times he spent money
recklessly, and then would come an obvious period of penury, when he
more or less lived with, and on, his bosom friends the Marchese and
Marchesa Pescobaldi.
More than once he had been associated in some big business enterprise,
but real, regular work bored him. It was now well known in Roman society
that he was looking out for a rich wife. M. Popeau’s informant had added
that had the Count been indifferent to the appearance of the lady, he
could have made more than one very wealthy marriage. But he was
fastidious and over-particular. Not long ago he had very nearly become
engaged to a great American-Irish heiress. But the young lady, unlike
most Irish girls, had been unattractive, and at the last moment Count
Beppo had drawn back.
This had been the more foolish of him because money was to Count Beppo
like the air which we human beings breathe—it was a thing which he could
not do without.
M. Popeau, who naturally regarded Lily as being only the niece of a
fairly well-to-do British ex-civil servant, felt very uneasy.
He was seriously afraid that the good-looking Italian, taken as he
obviously was with the girl’s innocent charm and beauty, would make
violent love to her and then ride away—as men of his type are doing
every day all the world over.
To a Frenchman there could be no comparison between Angus Stuart and
Beppo Polda. Polda was a fascinating man knowing all the turns of the
great game of love, Stuart simply an honest, straightforward,
fine-natured young soldier. He longed to warn the girl more explicitly
of the danger she was running. He told himself that perhaps it would be
wiser to do so a little later on.
“I understand,” he said, “that Count Beppo is staying in Monte Carlo for
some time?”
“That is what the Countess hoped,” answered Lily, a little coldly. “But
he spoke last night as if he could only stay a few days.”
She still felt very ruffled. Fond though she was of M. Popeau, she did
not intend to allow him to give her hints as to how to behave herself
with a young man.
“I’m glad to hear that,” exclaimed the Frenchman, and there was indeed a
tone of hearty relief and surprise in his voice.
“As for me, I’m sorry he’s going so soon!” Lily exclaimed. “_I_ like
Beppo! I think he and I are going to be great friends.”
They were now close to the steps of the Casino. Angus Stuart came up to
them, an eager look on his face:
“May I join you?” he asked, with the touch of old-fashioned courtesy
which M. Popeau found so pleasant in the young man.
“Of course, of course, dear friend! You shall come and assist me in
initiating Mademoiselle in the joys of play!” He turned to Lily. “How
much money have you got with you?”
Lily opened her bag and counted. “Forty francs,” she said.
“Well, that is exactly right. It will not ruin you to offer up that
tribute to the Goddess of Chance. On the other hand, it will be pleasant
if the forty francs become a hundred or two hundred francs!”
“That would be very nice indeed,” confessed the girl, smiling.
She was astonished to find how intensely conscious she was of Angus
Stuart’s quiet presence by her side. She longed—which was not very
grateful of her—for M. Popeau to move away, and leave them alone
together. They hadn’t met for two whole days, and she suddenly felt what
a long time it had seemed.
The pillared hall or atrium of the Casino was full of a motley crowd of
people, and Lily began to take eager notice of the amusing scene before
her. Beppo had been quite right—all colours and all types of humanity
were represented in the moving mass of men and women now gathered
together in this, the splendid palace of the Goddess of Chance.
“I will see to your admission card. Have you anything you desire to
leave in the way of a cloak or a parasol?”
She hesitated. “Yes, I think I will leave my parasol,” she said.
Angus Stuart accompanied her to the counter, where a gorgeous-looking
flunkey took her parasol and gave her a voucher.
“I feel so excited!” she exclaimed, looking up at her companion.
He said in a low tone, “Have you had——” and then checked himself
sharply, for M. Popeau had come up to them.
“Come along!” cried the Frenchman. “This is a great moment in your
life!”
He spoke half-seriously, half with a touch of good-natured banter in his
voice.
Drawing a deep breath of excited anticipation, the girl passed through
into the historic rooms which have seen so many dramas silently
enacted—for not once in a thousand days is there anything in the shape
of a “scene” in the still, golden-haze atmosphere of the Temple of
Chance.
Though it was early, there was a crowd round each of the roulette
tables, and for a moment Lily only noticed the curious-looking people
composing the crowd. Then, gradually, she began to see the table, the
more so that her two companions were quietly shepherding her to a good
place, close behind one of the croupiers.
At first the girl felt as if she would never understand the complicated
game; and then gradually she began to see the relation between the plan
or tableau, divided off with yellow lines into squares, and the
complicated giant yet toy-like wheel which was sunk in the centre of the
long, comparatively narrow table.
“And now,” said M. Popeau, “would you like to stake what is equivalent
to a five-franc piece on a number? What number will you choose?”
“If I were you,” said Angus Stuart, “I should back twelve numbers. If
you put your money on only one number you’ve thirty-five chances against
you.”
Lily hesitated. “Yes, do as he advises,” said M. Popeau good-naturedly.
And so Lily, guided by the Frenchman, put her small coloured counters on
the middle dozen; thus she covered the numbers 13 to 24.
The croupier behind whom Lily was standing gave the huge wheel a
powerful twist, then he flung a little ball into the revolving disc. It
spun round and round, jumping about as if possessed by the spirit of
motion. Then, at last, the great disc began to slow down. A croupier
called out, “Rien ne va plus!” The ball leapt into one of the red and
black pockets (each of which bears a corresponding number to one marked
on the plan), and the wheel ceased to revolve. Something was shouted
out, and then Lily saw with surprise and joy two other five-franc
counters joined to her stake. She looked round at her two companions.
“Pick your money up,” said Angus Stuart quickly, “or someone else will
get it!”
Sure enough, as she put out her hand hesitatingly, another hand—a big,
rather dirty-looking man’s hand—took up her three counters.
“That money belongs to Mademoiselle!” called out M. Popeau angrily.
There came a murmured “I beg your pardon; I made a mistake!” and the
counters were dropped.
Lily picked them up, feeling happy, and a little confused.
“You might let her put on an _en plein_ now,” pleaded M. Popeau with
Captain Stuart.
“Very well.” The Scotsman’s voice was reluctant and hesitating. “Put a
five-franc counter on any number you like. You’re sure to lose it!”
In spite of his discouraging remark, Lily put her counter on number
twenty-one.
“If I were you,” said Captain Stuart suddenly, “I should also put one on
zero. That will give you two chances out of thirty-five.”
She obeyed him.
Once more the ball was flung into the middle of the revolving disc, once
more it leapt about this way and that. And then, at last, after an
extraordinary number of revolutions, it settled down into a pocket, and
Lily heard a murmur of sharp disappointment run round the table.
“You’ve won!” exclaimed Captain Stuart in an excited voice. “Zero has
turned up! You’ve won—let me see—seven pounds, Miss Fairfield! Isn’t
that splendid?”
Lily felt very much pleased. She had been the only person to put
anything on zero; accordingly, envious, congratulatory glances were cast
on her from all parts of the table.
“I wouldn’t play any more to-day if I were you,” whispered Captain
Stuart. And again she obeyed him, stuffing all the money she had won
anyhow into her pretty little bag.
And now M. Popeau began to play. The other two watched him—Angus Stuart
with amusement, Lily with great curiosity.
“He always plays the same cautious game, for all he’s so fond of
advising other people to put on full on one number!” whispered the young
man in the girl’s little ear.
For a while Lily could not imagine what game M. Popeau was playing. He
put the equivalent of thirty francs on the space marked _passe_ and that
of twenty francs on the first dozen. It looked to Lily as if he won
every time—won, that is, something, somewhere. She couldn’t make it out!
“How does he do it?” she asked, puzzled. It was to her so strange that
everybody didn’t play like Papa Popeau if he won every time.
“You see, he covers nearly the whole of the board,” muttered Captain
Stuart. “He only loses right out when six numbers turn up out of the
thirty-five. Even when zero comes he doesn’t lose everything, for the
money he has on _passe_ is only ‘put into prison,’ as they call it. Yes,
it’s an ingenious system, and I often wonder more people don’t play it.
Of course, if you go on long enough, you’re bound to lose—even at
Popeau’s game.”
By this time the Frenchman was absorbed in his system, and the two young
people moved just a little way away from the table. Their friend glanced
up to see where they were, and then went on playing.
Lily was looking about her now with great amusement and curiosity. She
felt in a happy mood. It was delightful to have won all that money—and
so easily! It was very pleasant also to be with Angus Stuart. It seemed
a long time since they had parted two days ago, he gripping her hand
hard under the smiling eyes of the cab-driver.
“I should so like to come here in the evenings,” she exclaimed.
“The Club’s the place to see in the evening,” he answered quickly.
Anyone watching the two would have seen that they were in very different
moods. Lily looked radiant. She was certainly the prettiest, as well as
the best-dressed, girl in the rooms at that particular moment. As for
her companion, a look of doubt, of discomfort, of suspense was on his
face. But she was quite unaware of it. She prattled gaily on, excited
and interested by all she saw. Even when two stout women pushed so
roughly past her as almost to make her lose her balance she only
laughed.
At last, as they saw M. Popeau detach himself from the table and begin
his ambling walk towards them, a satisfied air on his fat, placid face,
Angus Stuart suddenly whispered, “I suppose you got my letter all right,
Miss Fairfield?”
“Your letter? No! I’ve had no letter from you since the last one you
wrote to me from Milan.”
“I wrote to you the day before yesterday evening!” he exclaimed under
his breath. And then, straightening himself, remarked with an air of
rather elaborate unconcern, “Well, Popeau, how goes it? Have you broken
the bank?”
“I have not broken the bank, but I have made two hundred francs!”
replied the Frenchman gaily. “And that, after all, is not bad! At one
moment I had made a good deal more, but alas! twice number fifteen
turned up and swept away a hundred francs of my winnings. I was very
foolish not to leave off—as Mademoiselle so wisely did.”
And then something very untoward happened. Lily suddenly discovered that
her charming little bag and its contents had disappeared. The silk cords
by which it had hung loosely on her right arm were still there, dangling
helplessly.
She looked about her, bewildered and chagrined.
“It must have been taken by one of the women who pushed past you just
now,” exclaimed Captain Stuart.
“I’ll try and not think any more about it. After all, I’ve only really
lost forty francs,” said Lily vexedly.