I
Above the Schweizerhof Hotel, and at the end of the long walk fronting the
lake at Lucerne,--the walk studded with the round, dumpy, Noah's-ark
trees,--stands a great building surrounded by flowers and palms, and at
night ablaze with hundreds of lamps hung in festoons of blue, yellow, and
red. This is the Casino. On each side of the wide entrance is a
bill-board, announcing that some world-renowned Tyrolean warbler, famous
acrobat, or marvelous juggler will sing or tumble or bewilder, the price
of admission remaining the same, despite the enormous sum paid for the
appearance of the performer.
Inside this everybody's club is a café, with hurrying waiters and a solid
brass band, and opening from its smoke and absinthe laden interior blazes
a small theatre, with stage footlights and scenery, where the several
world-renowned artists redeem at a very considerable discount the
promissory notes of the bill-boards outside.
During the performance the audience smoke and sip. Between the acts most
of them swarm out into the adjacent corridors leading to the
gaming-rooms,--licensed rooms these, with toy-horses ridden by tin
jockeys, and another equally delusive and tempting device of the devil--a
game of tipsy marbles, rolling about in search of sunken saucers
emblazoned with the arms of the nations of the earth. These whirligigs of
amateur crime are constantly surrounded by eager-eyed men and women, who
try their luck for the amusement of the moment, or by broken-down, seedy
gamblers, hazarding their last coin for a turn of fortune. Now and then,
too, some sweet-faced girl, her arm in her father's, wins a louis with a
franc, her childish laughter ringing out in the stifling atmosphere.
* * * * *
The Tyrolean warbler had just finished her high-keyed falsetto, bowing
backward in her short skirts and stout shoes with silver buckles, and I
had just reached the long corridor on my way to the garden, to escape the
blare and pound of the band, when a man leaned out of a half-opened door
and touched my shoulder.
"Pardon, monsieur. May I speak to you a moment?"
He was a short, thick-set, smooth-shaven, greasy man, dressed plainly in
black, with a huge emerald pin in his shirt front. I have never had any
particular use for a man with an emerald pin in his shirt front.
"There will be a game of baccarat," he continued in a low voice, his eyes
glancing about furtively, "at eleven o'clock precisely. Knock twice at
this door."
Old habitués of Lucerne--habitués of years, men who never cross the Alps
without at least a day's stroll under the Noah's-ark trees,--will tell you
over their coffee that since the opening of the St. Gotthard Tunnel this
half-way house of Lucerne--this oasis between Paris and Rome--has
sheltered most of the adventurers of Europe; that under these same trees,
and on these very benches, nihilists have sat and plotted, refugees and
outlaws have talked in whispers, and adventuresses, with jeweled stilettos
tucked in their bosoms, have lain in wait for fresher victims.
I had never in my wanderings met any of these mysterious and delightful
people. And, strange to say, I had never seen a game of baccarat. This
might be my opportunity. I would see the game and perhaps run across some
of these curious individuals. I consulted my watch; there was half an hour
yet. The man was a runner, of course, for this underground, unlicensed
gaming-house, who had picked me out as a possible victim.
When the moment arrived I knocked at the door.
It was opened, not by the greasy Jack-in-the-box with the emerald pin, but
by a deferential old man, who looked at me for a moment, holding the door
with his foot. Then gently closing it, he preceded me across a hall and up
a long staircase. At the top was a passageway and another door, and behind
this a large room paneled in dark wood. On one side of this apartment was
a high desk. Here sat the cashier counting money, and arranging little
piles of chips of various colors. In the centre stood a table covered with
black cloth: I had always supposed such tables to be green. About it were
seated ten people, the croupier in the middle. The game had already begun.
I moved up a chair, saying that I would look on, but not play.
Had the occasion been a clinic, the game a corpse, and the croupier the
operating surgeon, the group about the table could not have been more
absorbed or more silent; a cold, death-like, ominous stillness that seemed
to saturate the very air. The only sounds were the occasional clickings of
the ivory chips, like the chattering of teeth, and the monotones of the
croupier announcing the results of the play:--
"Faites vos jeux. Le jeu est fait; rien ne va plus."