TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE
The fault of us women is that we so often over-esteem the value of our
good looks. To my mind the possession of handsome toilettes is quite as
essential to a woman’s well-being and man’s contentment as are personal
attractions. A woman, however beautiful she may be, loses half her
charm to men’s eyes if she dresses dowdily or without taste. Nobody
ever saw a really beautiful Parisienne. For the most part they are
thin-nosed, thin-lipped, scraggy-necked, yellow-faced, and absolutely
ugly, yet are they not, merely by reason of their chic in dress, the
most attractive women in the world? I know that many will dissent from
this estimate, but as my mirror tells me that I have a face more than
commonly handsome, and as dozens of men have further endorsed the mute
evidence of my toilet-glass, I can only confess that all my success
and all my harmless flirtations have had their commencements in the
attraction exercised by the dainty creations of my couturière. We hear
much complaining among women that there are not a sufficient number of
nice men to go round, but, after all, the woman who knows how to dress
need have no lack of offers of marriage. American women can always be
distinguished from the English, and it is certain that to their quiet
smartness in frills and furbelows their success in the marriage mart is
due.
Yes, there was no doubt that Reggie Thorne admired me. I had
suspected it on the night when we had waltzed together at the
Pendymans’ and afterwards gossiped together over ices, but with a
woman dance-flirtations are soon forgotten, and, truth to tell, I had
forgotten him until our sudden and unexpected meeting.
“What awfully good luck we’ve met Gerald and Reggie,” Ulrica said
when half-an-hour later we were seated together in the privacy of
our sitting-room. “Gerald, poor boy, was always a bit gone on me in
Washington, and as for Reggie--well, he’ll make an excellent cavalier
for you. Even if Mother Grundy is dead and buried, it isn’t very
respectable to be constantly trotting over to Monte Carlo without male
escort.”
“You mean that they’ll be a couple of useful males--eh?”
“Certainly. Their advent is quite providential. Some of Gerald’s luck
at the table may be reflected upon us. I should dearly like to make my
expenses at Monte.”
“So should I.”
“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t,” she went on confidently. “I know
quite a lot of people who’ve won enough to pay for the whole trip to
Europe.”
“Reggie has money, hasn’t he?”
“Of course. The old man was on Wall Street and died very comfortably
off. All of it went to Reggie, with an annuity to his mother. Of
course, he’s spent a good deal since. A man doesn’t live in Washington
as he does, drive tandem, and all that sort of thing on nothing a year.”
“They used to say that Gerald Keppel hadn’t a dollar only what the old
man allowed him monthly--and a most niggardly allowance, I’ve heard.”
“That’s quite possible, my dear Carmela,” she answered. “But one’s
position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire.
Old Benjamin is eccentric. I’ve met the old buffer several times. He’s
addicted to my pet abomination in a man--paper collars.”
“Then you’ll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?” I
laughed.
“Yes. I’m self-sacrificing, am I not?”
She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel,
and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of
Delight which somebody has suggested might be known by the Sign of the
Seven Sins.
Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type, pretty, with soft,
wavy chestnut hair, and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host
of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine, yet beneath her
corsets, I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love
and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change, and
flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them.
Neither, indeed, could I, for, living with her ever since my convent
days, I had imbibed her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks
of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the Grand
Hotel, we went over to Monte Carlo by the two o’clock “yellow” express.
Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera--that stretch
of azure sky, azure sea, of golden coasts, purple hills fringed with
olive and pine, rose and geranium running riot over hedge and hollow,
oranges golden and flowers white upon the same branch. The pale
violet of the Alps answers the violet of the valleys; white and gold
marguerites spangle the hill-side where the old rock village of Eze is
perched above; white and gold villas dot the wayside, and white and
gold are the decoration of that Casino wherein is centred all the human
vices--painted tastefully in white and gold--The Sign of the Seven Sins.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling
salle-de-jeu where the croupiers were crying in those mechanical,
strident tones “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” and uttering in warning
voice “Rien ne va plus!” I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those
grabbing crowds of smartly dressed people grouped around the tables?
Were they actually civilized beings--beings who had loved, suffered,
and lived, as I had loved, suffered, and lived?
How beautiful it was outside in that gay little Place with the red
Hungarian band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and
half the grande monde of Europe lounging about and chattering. How
enchanting was the grim Dog’s Head as a fitting background in dark
purple against the winter sunset, the old bronze Grimaldi rock rising
sheer from the turquoise sea surmounted by the white tower of Monaco
and the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right Villefranche and
San Juan shining in topaz and amber,--the Esterels as a necklace of
radiant jewels,--while to the left Bordighera was lying at the base of
its neck, like a pearl at a fair throat. And beyond there was Italy--my
own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a
paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day
was tempered by the thick curtains and the clink of gold mingled with
the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.
Some years ago--ah! now I am looking back: Ulrica is not at fault this
time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself in writing this
narrative not to think, but to try and forget all past unhappiness.
Try. Ah! would that I could calm my soul--steep it in a draught of
thoughtlessness, such that oblivion would come.
It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer and yet live. What a
blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman’s heart! Men may
look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our
hearts may be breaking we may wear a smile; we can fold our sorrows as
a bird folds its wings, for they are part of our physical being; we can
hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us.
Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all are, alas! a woman’s
heritage. Even in the few years I have lived I have had my share of
them all.
I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel
and the eager crowd of faces around it.
“Vingt! Rouge, pair et passé!” the croupier cried, and a couple of
louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with
the silver, notes, and gold to swell the bank.
I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron and pursed my
lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Florence had taught me
so long ago was very true, Amore non è senza amaro.
The millionaire’s son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was
played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had
once loved--the man whose slave I was--the man whom I had forgiven,
even though he had left me so cruelly.
Only three things could make life to me worth living--the sight of his
face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips.
But they could never be, alas! we were parted for ever--for ever.
“Now, play this time,” I heard Reggie beside me exclaim.
“Where?” I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of
my surroundings.
“On the line, there--between the numbers 9 and 12.”
I took a louis from my purse and with the rake carelessly pushed it
upon the line he had indicated. Then I turned to talk with Gerald.
“Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier.
A hundred necks were craned to watch the result.
The ball fell with a final click into one of the little spaces upon the
wheel.
“Neuf! Rouge, impair et manque!”
“You’ve won, my dear!” cried Ulrica excitedly, and in a few moments
Reggie, who raked up my winnings, gave me quite a handful of gold.
“There now,” he said, laughing, “you’ve made your first coup. Try
again.”
I crammed the gold into my purse, but it would not hold it all. The
three louis which would not go in I held in indecision in my hand.
“Play on the treize-dix-huit this time!” urged Reggie, and I obeyed him
blindly.
The number 18 came up, therefore I again received another little
handful of gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my
direction, and to me the excitement of winning was an entirely new
sensation.
Ulrica fancied the last dozen, and I placed five louis upon it, winning
a third time. Having won eight hundred francs in three turns of the
wheel, I began to think roulette not such wearying fun as I had once
believed it to be.
I wanted to continue playing, but the others prevented me. They knew
too well that the bank at Monte Carlo only lends its money to the
players.
With Reggie at my side I went out and strolled through those beautiful
gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and afterwards sat
on the terrace of the Café de Paris and enjoyed the brilliant sundown.