HE went to the house agent on the main street and from him procured
the exact position of Madame Serpilot’s residence.
“An old madame?” said the agent. “No, monsieur, I cannot say that she is
old. And I cannot say that she is young.”
He thought a moment, as though endeavouring to find some reason for this
reticence on the subject of her age, and then added:
“I have not seen her. Madame is a widow,” he went on. “Alas! there are
so many in France as the result of the terrible war.”
“Then she is young,” said Timothy. “They didn’t send old men to the
front.”
“She may be young,” replied the agent, “or she may be old. One does not
know.”
He called the assistant who had shown the lady the house and had taken
the documents for her to sign. The assistant was aged sixteen, and at
the age of sixteen most people above twenty are listed amongst the aged.
He was certain she was a widow and very feeble, because she walked with
a stick. She always wore a heavy black veil, even when she was in the
garden.
“Is it not natural,” said the house agent romantically, “that the madame
who has lost all that makes life worth living should no longer desire
the world to look upon her face?”
“It may be natural in Monte Carlo,” said Timothy, “but it is not natural
in London.”
He located the house on a large plan which the obliging agent produced,
and went back to the hotel, firmly resolved to take the first
opportunity of calling on Madame Serpilot and discovering what object
she had in view when she arranged to endanger his young life.
Mary was waiting for him, a little impatiently for one who had such a
horror of gambling.
“We have to get tickets at the Bureau,” she said, “and the concierge
says we must have special membership cards for the Cercle Privée.”
The tickets were easy to procure, and they passed into the great saloon
where, around five tables, stood silent ovals of humanity. The scene was
a weird one to Timothy and fascinating too. Besides this, all the other
gambling games in the world, all the roulette tables and baccara
outfits, were crude and amateurish. The eight croupiers who sat at each
table in their black frock coats and their black ties, solemn visaged,
unemotional, might have been deacons in committee. The click of rakes
against chips, the whirr of the twirling ball, the monotonous sing-song
announcement of the chief croupier—it was a ritual and a business at
one and the same time.
It was amazing to reflect that, year in and year out, from ten o’clock
in the morning until ten o’clock at night (until midnight in the Cercle
Privée) these black-coated men sat at their tables, twirling their
rakes, watching without error every note or counter that fell on the
table, separating notes from chips with a deftness that was amazing,
doing this in such an atmosphere of respectability that the most rabid
anti-gambler watching the scene must come in time to believe that
roulette was a legitimate business exercise.
Through the years this fringe of people about the table would remain,
though units would go out, and as units went out new units would replace
them, and everlastingly would sit shabby old men and women with their
cryptic notebooks, making their tableaux with red and black pencils,
religiously recording the result of every coup, staking now and again
their five-franc pieces, and watching them raked to the croupier with
stony despair or drawing with trembling hands the few poor francs which
fortune had sent them.
Timothy was very silent when they passed the portals of the Cercle
Privée, into that wonderful interior which, viewed from the entrance
room, had the appearance of some rich cathedral.
“What do you think of them?” asked Mary.
He did not answer at once.
“What did you think of the people?” she demanded again. “Did you see
that quaint old woman—taking a chance? I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I
really didn’t mean to be——”
“I know you didn’t,” said Timothy, and sighed.
The roulette table did not attract him. He strolled off to watch the
players at _trente et quarante_. Here the procedure was more
complicated. One of the officials dealt two lines of cards, ending each
when the pips added to something over thirty. The top line stood for
black, the lower line for red, and that which was nearest to thirty won.
After mastering this, the process was simple; you could either back the
red or the black, or you could bet that the first card that was dealt
was identical with the colour that won, or was the reverse.
The game interested him. It had certain features which in a way were
fascinating. He noticed that the croupier never spoke of the black. The
black might have had no existence at the _trente et quarante_ table;
either “red won” or “red lost.” He staked a louis and won twice. He
staked another and lost it. Then he won three coups of a louis and
looked around uncertainly, almost guiltily, for Mary.
She was watching the roulette players, and Timothy took a wad of bills
from his pocket and counted out six milles. That was another thing he
was to discover: there were three classes of players—those who punted
in one or five louis pieces, those who bet handsomely in milles (a
thousand-franc note is a “mille” and has no other name), and those who
went the maximum of twelve thousand francs on each coup.
Money had no value. He threw six thousand down to the croupier and
received in exchange six oblong plaques like thin cakes of blue soap. He
put a thousand francs on the black and lost it. He looked round
apprehensively for Mary, but she was still intent upon the roulette
players. He ventured another thousand, and lost that too. A young
Englishman sitting at the table looked up with a smile.
“You’re betting against the tableau,” he said. “The table is running red
to-night. Look!” He showed a little notebook ruled into divisions, and
long lines of dots, one under the other. “You see,” he said, “all these
are reds. The table has only swung across to black twice for any run,
and then it was only a run of four. If you bet against the table you’ll
go broke.”
At any other place than at the tables at Monte Carlo advice of this
character, and intimate references to financial possibilities, would be
resented. But the Rooms, like the grave, level all the players, who are
a great family banded together in an unrecognised brotherhood for the
destruction of a common enemy.
“I’ll take a chance against the table,” said Timothy, “and I shall go
broke, anyway.”
The Englishman laughed.
The four thousand francs he had left went the same way as their friends
and Timothy changed another six thousand and threw two on the black.
Then, acting on the impulse of the moment, he threw down the remaining
four.
“Timothy!”
He turned at the shocked voice and Mary was standing behind him.
“Do you gamble like that?” she asked.
He tried to smile, but produced a grimace.
“Why, it is nothing,” he said, “it is only francs, and francs aren’t
real money, anyway.”
She turned and walked away and he followed. The Englishman, twisting
round in his chair, said something. Timothy thought he was asking
whether he should look after his money and answered “Certainly.”
The girl walked to one of the padded benches by the wall and sat down.
There was such real trouble in her face that Timothy’s heart sank.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said, “but this is my last fling and you told me I
could have it. After to-night I cut out everything that doesn’t qualify
for the ‘earned income’ column of the tax-surveyor.”
“You frighten me,” she said. “It isn’t the amount of money you were
venturing, but there was something in your face which made me feel—why!
I just felt sick,” she said.
“Mary!” he said in surprise.
“I know I’m being unreasonable,” she interrupted, “but Timothy, I—I
just don’t want to think of you like this.”
She looked into his dejected face and the softest light that ever shone
in woman’s eyes was in hers.
“Poor Timothy!” she said, half in jest, “you’re paying the penalty for
having a girl friend.”
“I’m paying the penalty for being a loafer,” he said huskily. “I think
there must be some bad blood in us. Mary, I know what I’m losing,” he
said, and took one of her hands. “I’m losing the right to love you,
dearest.”
It was a queer place for such a confession, and in her wildest dreams
the girl never imagined that the first word of love spoken to her by any
man would come in a gambling saloon at Monte Carlo. Above her where she
sat was the great canvas of the Florentine Graces; half nude reliefs on
the ceiling dangled glittering chains of light and over all sounded the
monotonous voice of the croupier:
“Rouge perd—et couleur.”
The young Englishman at the table turned round with an inquiring lift of
his eyebrows, and Timothy nodded.
“He wants to know if I’m finished, I suppose,” he said, “and honestly
Mary, I am. I’m going back to London when this trip’s over, and I’m
going to start at the bottom and work up.”
“Poor Timothy!” she said again.
“I’m not going to lie to you, or pretend any longer. I just love you,
Mary, and if you’ll wait for me, I’ll make good. I have been a gambler,”
he said, “a poor, low gambler, and all the time I’ve thought I’ve been
clever! I’ve been going round puffed up with my own self-importance, and
my head’s been so much in the air that I haven’t seen just where my feet
were leading me,” he laughed. “This sounds like the sort of thing you
get at the Salvation Army penitent form,” he said, “but I’m straight and
sincere.”
“I know you are, Timothy, but you needn’t start at the bottom. I have my
money——”
“Stop where you are, Mary,” he said quietly. “Not a penny would I take
from you, darling.”
“What did they ring that bell for?” she asked.
It was the second time the tinkle of sound had come from the croupier at
the _trente et quarante_ table.
“Heaven knows!” said Timothy. “Maybe it is to call the other
worshippers.”
Again the young Englishman looked round and said something.
“What did he say?” asked Timothy.
“He said seventeen,” said the girl. “Was that the number you backed?”
Timothy smiled.
“There are no numbers on that table except No. 1—and No. 1 is the fat
man with the rake—he gets it coming and going. Mary, I’m going to ask
you one question: If I make good will you marry me?”
She was silent and again the voice of the croupier came:
“Rouge perd—couleur gagne.”
“What does ‘rouge perd’ mean?” she asked. “He has said that ever so many
times.”
“It means ‘black wins,’” said Timothy.
“Does black always win?” she asked.
“Not always,” said Timothy gently. “Maybe he’s only saying that to lure
me back to the table. Mary, what do you say?”
“I say yes,” she said, and to the scandal of the one attendant who was
watching them he bent forward and kissed her.
A terrible act this, for the gold-laced and liveried footman, who came
with slow, majestic steps to where they sat.
“Monsieur,” he said, “this is not done.”
Timothy looked up at him.
“_Chassez-vous_,” he said firmly.
It was startling French, but it was the nearest he could get at the
moment to “chase yourself.”
Again the bell tinkled, and the young Englishman rose, thrust a small
packet of money into his pocket and came toward them, bearing what
looked to be a large book without covers. His face was a little haggard
and the perspiration stood upon his forehead.
“This is getting on my nerves, old man. You had better play yourself,”
he said, and he handed the book to Timothy, and Timothy looked vaguely
from his hands to the hot Englishman.
“What’s this?” he croaked.
“A run of twenty-eight on the black,” said the Englishman. “It is
phenomenal! You wanted me to go on, didn’t you? I asked you whether I
should play your thousand francs. The bank bust four times—didn’t you
hear them ring for more money?”
Timothy nodded. He had no words.
“Well, your six went to twelve and I left the maximum run,” the
Englishman said. “I asked you if that was right and you nodded.”
“Yes, I nodded,” said Timothy mechanically.
“You’ve won twenty-seven and a half maximums.”
Timothy looked at the money in his hand, looked up at the ceiling and
gulped something down.
“Thank you,” he gasped. “I am obliged to you.”
It was inadequate, but it was all that he could say.
“Not at all,” said the Englishman. “I won a lot of money myself.”
“I’m not a great hand at arithmetic,” said Timothy, “will you tell me
how many pounds twenty-seven and a half maximums make?”
It was a remarkable situation. Somebody should have laughed, but they
were all too serious, the girl as serious as Timothy, and the young
Englishman scrawling calculations on a loose page of his notebook.
“Thirty-five francs to a pound,” he said, “makes £340 a coup.
Twenty-seven and a half is about——”
“Thank you!” said Timothy, and he gripped the other’s hand and wrung it.
“Thank you, fairy godmother—I don’t know your other name.”
They stood together watching his lanky figure, as he, wholly unconscious
of the providential part he had played, moved down to the roulette
table, eyeing the game with the air of superiority which every player of
_trente et quarante_ has for a game with a paltry maximum of six
thousand francs.
“Timothy,” whispered the girl, “isn’t it wonderful?”
He put the money into his pocket and it bulged untidily.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“Give it to the poor,” said Timothy, taking her arm.
“To the poor?”
She was wondering whether his fortune had driven him mad.
“The poor,” he said firmly, “money won by gambling——”
“Nonsense,” she broke in, “to what poor are you giving it?”
“To poor Timothy,” said he. “Let us dash madly to the bar and drink
orangeade.”