OLDPAINT, COCKSPUR, AND NORTH ADAMS AT THE CASINO.
Oldpaint was a fellow-traveler of ours from Mentone to Monte Carlo. Not
knowing her real name, I call her Oldpaint for sufficient reasons. She
was wrinkled with age, and excessively painted. Turner, in his moments
of divinest frenzy, would not have laid on the red more boldly. It
blazed through her veil. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes sunken, with
deep black marks scored beneath them which she had vainly attempted
to whiten. The whole expression of her face was desperate. I observed
in her hand a ticket stamped Monte Carlo. Then I guessed she was a
veteran devotee of roulette. And I was right. For, when I entered the
_salle de jeu_ a few hours later, she was already there, comfortably
seated at the _croupier’s_ elbow, and evidently at home. It was by
closely watching her play that I first came to understand the horrible
fascination of the game for its votaries.
Cockspur is another name I was obliged to invent for an
Englishman--also a confirmed gambler--whom we first encountered
lunching in the Restaurant de Paris at Monte Carlo. This establishment
is worthy of its imposing title. There is no better on the Boulevards.
It is famous for game in season, and good wines all the year round.
When we entered this paradise of _gourmets_, and dropped quietly
into two chairs at a table not far from the door, we did not
instantly attract attention. No waiter appearing for a moment, we
fell to studying some brilliant frescoes on the ceiling, and noting
the sumptuousness of the furniture, the fineness of the linen, the
exquisite fragility of the cut-glass. Still no _garçon_. I turned my
head impatiently, and then saw what was the matter. At the third table
behind us sat a tall young man, with light, curly hair and mustaches,
and by his side a showy woman, who looked like a queen of burlesque in
walking-suit. There was an indescribable something in the frizzling of
her hair, the look of her eyes, her stereotyped smile, which betrayed
the professional winner of applause from crowded parquettes. The man
was evidently under her dominion, and was testifying to his complete
surrender by ordering on the costliest meats and wines. They did not
seem desirous to excite public curiosity, for they spoke low and
behaved decorously enough. But the lunch was prodigal, even for that
place of extravagances. To serve it had required two waiters, who now,
in a moment of pause, hovered about “milord’s” table, wondering what
he would condescend to order next. It was plain that they were all
expecting liberal _pour boires_ from this spendthrift of a patron.
Still other waiters had gathered in the vicinity, as if to pick up some
stray crumbs of his bounty. All eyes being focused on this couple, we
had apparently escaped observation. I gave notice of my presence by a
slight cough, and, to the lasting credit of the Restaurant de Paris,
am happy to say that it provoked a prompt response. A smart waiter
dutifully detached himself from the little group and bent before me
with an apologetic expression of face. I hastily consulted the _carte
du jour_, and gave my order.
The lunch was quickly served, and proved to be excellent. The
sweetbreads, _omelette soufflé_, and some Pontet Canet of 1872, were
particularly interesting. But I did not forget to look over my shoulder
occasionally to see how the Englishman and his companion were getting
on. They soon finished their repast; the bill, which might have been a
washer-woman’s for length, was delivered and paid without verification.
He only looked at the total, and produced from a great roll of French
bank-notes one which he placed upon the salver extended to him. Then
he opened a rouleau of gold, and gave a bright-yellow piece to each of
the two waiters who stood near him. As the salver was borne past me
to the _caisse_, I noticed that the bill was of the denomination of
100 francs. The Englishman did not stop for his change (if any), but
hurried off with his stylish enslaver; so I inferred that 100 francs
was not far from the price of their lunch. Remarking this extraordinary
lavishness, I said to myself, “That man has been winning a pot of money
over at the Casino.”
Now it happened that he had placed his new Derby hat in the embrasure
of the window, just behind my chair. As one of the waiters reached over
for it, I inadvertently glanced into the hat, and there chanced to see
the illegible name of somebody, “maker, Cockspur St., London.” So this
extravagant Englishman became “Cockspur” to me henceforth and forever.
We shall soon see more of him.
From our luncheon at the Restaurant de Paris we went direct to the
Casino, and there, while I was hunting up my card for the inspection
of the chief inquisitor, I observed an innocent-looking youth standing
near me. He wore the dog-collar, the pointed shoes, the tight-fitting,
single-breasted coat of the London swell, and he gripped his little
silver-headed cane in the middle, like a shillalah. But I know my dear
fellow-countrymen under all their disguises. A single glance at his
face convinced me that he was a good young American on his first trip.
His dissipation was obviously confined to clothes. He had just handed
in his card, and an official personage was making an entry of the name
in a book.
“_Quel pays, monsieur?_” he asked, courteously.
The good young man turned to me and said, with surprise: “Is there
anything to pay here? I thought it was a free show.”
“There is no charge. He only wants to know where you are from, as we
would say in America,” I answered.
His ingenuous cheeks colored. “I can speak French a little myself,”
said he; “but somehow I don’t catch it when they speak it at me.”
I assured him kindly that we all had the same trouble, more or less.
“_Quel pays, monsieur?_” repeated the ever-amiable _greffier_ of the
administration.
“Beg pardon,” said the good young man, flushing again. “I’m from North
Adams, Massachusetts.”
“_Nort-a-darm--Massa-Massa--n’importe--Angleterre_,” murmured the
_greffier_, and down it went.
The benighted Frenchman had supposed the name of the glorious old
commonwealth to be that of some obscure shire in England. It is the
most flagrant piece of geographical distortion on record.
The good young man was so flustered by all this that he did not wait to
exchange cards with me, but hurried off to the gambling-hall. So I was
compelled to label him in my mind “North Adams.” He was number three
among the strangers in whose actions that day I took a deep interest.
Without their presence, indeed, the game of roulette would have been
tiresome to me as a mere spectator.
If Oldpaint had not been one of the large company of gamblers in that
magnificent apartment, I should have been much disappointed; for I felt
a profound curiosity to see how her withered features would stand the
wear and tear of the game. There she was, as if by agreement, and I at
once stationed myself behind her chair. Her seat was well chosen for a
general survey of the table. She was just opposite the wheel, and the
_croupier_ who set it whirling at intervals was her nearest neighbor.
Oldpaint still wore her veil closely drawn over her face. But I
could see the varying expression of her features through the gauze,
as I looked down at her while she played. At one time her dull eyes
would light up with a gleam of avaricious joy. Again they would
become fishy. The pinched mouth would contract slightly at the
corners, bringing out new wrinkles on her rouged cheeks, or her thin,
vermilion-tinted lips would curve downward, just as she happened to win
or lose--more commonly the latter. Her gloved hands, which terminated
in skeleton wrists, trembled equally as she put up her stakes or piled
her occasional winnings in little round towers before her.
By her side stood a small open bag, through the steel jaws of which I
saw silver five-franc pieces and little rolls of gold, like packages
of lozenges, with one coin visible at the end as a sample. Below was
a thin foundation of French bank-notes. Oldpaint was one of those who
play on a system. She had before her a large pasteboard card divided
into many squares, and a pencil with a sharp point. Whenever the wheel
slowed up so as to permit the ivory ball to drop into a compartment and
decide the game, she threw a lightning glance at the winning number and
color, and pricked certain entries on her card. By the time the human
parrot at her side called out, “_Faites vos jeux_,” she was ready with
a fresh stake, generally a small one. In no instance did she go over
ten francs.
As for Oldpaint’s system, it was too complicated for me to understand.
But the results were plain enough: _rouge_ was generally turning up
when she had bet on _noir_. Her money, as a rule, stood on _pair_,
when it should have been on _impair_. When other players were doubling
their stakes on _passe_, Oldpaint was almost sure to have five francs
on _manque_. Occasionally she would haul in something substantial.
Once she bagged eight times the amount of her stake. It had been put
at the intersecting lines of four numbers, one of which had won. As
the _croupier_ scooped them in for her with his little rake, I could
see the enamel on her cheeks crack open in new places, she smiled so
broadly; and then, on the strength of this bit of luck, the poor old
woman would go on losing again. It made me sick to see her throwing
away good money on a system which ought to have been turned round end
for end. A gambler, if he had been in my place, would have made a good
thing just watching Oldpaint and playing against her every time.
My attention was now called off by the sudden appearance of Cockspur on
the scene. As there was no spare seat for him at the table, he stood up
in the second row of players and spectators. His face was flushed, and
he reached forward between two other persons to rest his hand on the
back of a chair, as if to steady himself. I wondered if the man would
be foolish enough to play in that half-drunken state. It was a great
pity that such a free-hearted fellow should be a victim of the dreadful
vice of gambling, and perhaps be reduced to beggary by his rashness
before night.
Cockspur took a napoleon from a side-pocket which audibly jingled
with coins. Waiting till the wheel started, he pitched the gold-piece
carelessly on the table. It rolled on its edge, making a circle on
the cloth and finally laid down at the junction of two lines which
intersect six numbers. “_Rien ne va plus_,” droned the human parrot,
when the speed of the wheel was much reduced, and a moment later the
ball dropped with a little thud. “_Vingt-cinq rouge_,” said the same
monotonous voice. I looked at the square on the table, and lo! it was
one of the six numbers covered by Cockspur’s napoleon. He had won five
times the amount of his stake. One of the servitors whose duty it is to
assist in placing money on the table or handing over winnings, passed
the six napoleons up to Cockspur, who slipped them into the yawning
side-pocket. His face expressed no pleasure. Some men, under the
belief that they had struck a run of luck, would, in Cockspur’s place,
have risked a sum larger than twenty francs on the next round. In his
condition I expected him to do something rash. But he only produced
another napoleon from his store and let it fall. After wobbling about
a moment it came to rest on the division marked _manque_. Again a whirl
of the wheel and a fall of the ball, and the _croupier_ proclaimed
“_Quinze noir_,” and Cockspur doubled his stake, because 15 is
_manque_, or less than 18. All numbers over 18 up to 36 are _passe_;
and all the players who had put their money on the part of the table so
labeled, were losers to the bank.
The same good fortune pursued Cockspur as he pitched his gold pieces
at random into the section _Rouge_ or _Noir_, _Pair_ or _Impair_. He
won six or seven times running while I looked on. And then he and all
the players together fell prey to the bank’s single advantage. Besides
the thirty-six numbers, there is a zero (0), and, when that catches the
ball, all the stakes on the board are raked in by the bank, with the
solitary exception that any person who has staked on the zero (thereby
backing the bank) gains thirty-five times the amount of his wager. But,
in the case under notice, the zero symbol was uncovered. As the bank
plays nine or ten hours every day in the year, and must, according
to the law of probabilities, win once in every thirty-seven games
(requiring about a minute each) on the average, one can understand
how the administration makes all its money without the necessity of
cheating. No player is allowed to stake more than six thousand francs
at a time, and the enormous capital of the bank enables it to continue
the game against any conceivably probable run of bad luck.
Cockspur continued to drop his money, always the one prudent napoleon,
on the table, and letting it take the chances. Sometimes he lost, but
more often he won. It would have been amusing, but for the sadness of
their long and hungry faces, to see Oldpaint and some others who were
losing steadily on systems, look up at Cockspur who was discarding all
methods and trusting blindly to luck, and showing so much judgment even
in his folly, taking only small risks at a time. As I gazed across
the table at him, I foresaw with prophetic eye the time, and not far
off, when his luck would turn, and he would then become frenzied and
reckless; perhaps put up his last napoleon, and lose it, and then the
siren with the frizzled hair would drop her penniless lover, and the
comedy of real life would tragically close with a pistol-shot and a
newspaper paragraph.
I was dwelling on this dismal ending of the handsome fellow opposite,
when a new cause of anxiety threw him quite out of my mind.
There was North Adams, fluttering around the table like a moth about
a candle. He had been spending his time watching the other groups of
players, I suppose, and had now come to see what our set was doing.
Like most persons who look on at the game for the first time, he
watched only those who won. The equal numbers who lost at every fall of
the ball seemed to escape his observation. Every time a player raked in
a goodly pile, North Adams’s eyes would bulge out with astonishment. He
would thrust his hand into a pocket and partly draw it out, and then
thrust it back again. A storm of conflicting feelings swept over his
smooth, beardless face. One could easily read avarice, covetousness,
the love of illicit gain, struggling with the generous sentiments of
youth and the good principles of New England training. I tried to catch
his eye, but in vain. He was totally absorbed in the contemplation
of all that money so easily won. Once he elbowed his way through the
double row of outsiders, and I thought he was about to place money on
the table. But just then the bank again scored zero (0), and all those
yellow and white pieces down there disappeared in an instant! This was
a warning for North Adams. He drew back, and I saw a look as of shrewd
reflection pass across his face. He wiped his damp brow, and resolutely
buttoned up the pocket into which his hand had so often dived without
bringing up anything.
That one decisive hit for the bank seemed to banish the doubts that
had evidently troubled North Adams. He did not look like a person of
severe moral principles; he may have had no nice scruples upon the
subject of gaming; but when his mind, such as it was, still bearing
the impress of his early schooling and severe discipline, realized
that the bank had a “sure thing” in the long run, then he hesitated to
jump at the gilded bait. Some grains of hard common sense inherited
from level-headed ancestors, along with the high cheek-bones of his
Scotch face, came to his rescue in the nick of time. Blood will tell,
even when thinned down in the veins of a harmless dude; and while I
looked at him, still questioning his firmness against temptation, he
deliberately turned his back upon the game and walked straight out of
the room.
I soon followed him into the open air, better pleased with that
spectacle of conflict and victory than with all else I had seen in the
gambling-palace of Monte Carlo.