TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE
Reader, have you ever lived in an English _pension_ on the Riviera?
Have you ever inhabited a small cubicle containing a chair, a deal
table, a narrow bed--with mosquito curtains--and a hung-up
looking-glass, and partaken of that cheap, ill-cooked food, the
stale-egg omelette and the tough _biftek_, served in the bare
_salle-à-manger_ by one of those seedy, unshaven waiters who appear
to be specially bred for the cheap Riviera boarding-houses? Have you
ever spent an evening with that mixed crowd of ascetic persons who
nightly congregate in the fusty _salon_, play upon a cracked piano,
screech old-fashioned sentimentalities, exhibit their faded finery,
paste jewels and bony chests, and otherwise make the hours, following
dinner absolutely hideous? If not, a week of this life will be found
to be highly amusing.
"My dear," Ulrica whispered, as we followed the proprietress, a buxom
Frenchwoman in black satin, along the bare, white-washed corridor to
our rooms, "hotel or work-house--which?"
There was a comfortless look everywhere, even though the spread of
the blue sea and the palm-planted Promenade des Anglais were
magnificent parts of the view, and the warm winter sunshine streamed
into our tiny rooms--chambers so small that our trunks had to be
placed in the corridor.
We changed our frocks and went down to dinner, discovering the
_salle-à-manger_ by its smell. What a scene presented itself at that
_table d'hôte_! The long table was crowded by a host of dowdy women,
generally wearing caps of soiled lace and faded ribbons, with one or
two dismal-looking and elderly men. Of spinsters there were not a
few, and of widows many, but one and all possessed the stamp of
persons of small means struggling perseveringly to obtain their fill
for the ten francs _par jour_ which they paid for their "south rooms."
As new-comers, we were directed to seats at the bottom of the table;
and after we had suffered from a watery concoction which the menu
described as _potage_, we proceeded to survey our fellow-guests in
that cheap and respectable _pension_.
That they were severely respectable there could certainly be no
doubt. There were a couple of drawling English clergymen, with their
wives--typical vicars' wives who patronised their neighbours; two or
three sad-faced young girls, accompanied by ascetic relatives; a
young Frenchman who eyed Ulrica all the time; one or two hen-pecked
husbands of the usual type to be found in such hostelries of the
aged; and an old lady who sat in state at the extreme end of the
table, and much amused us by her efforts at juvenility. Besides
ourselves, she was apparently the only person who had a maid with
her; and in order to exhibit that fact, she sent for her
smelling-salts during dinner. She was long past sixty, yet dressed
in a style becoming a girl of eighteen, in bright colours and lace,
her fair wig being dressed in the latest Parisian style, and the
wrinkles of her cheeks filled up by various creams and face powders.
"That old crow is an absolute terror!" observed Ulrica to me in an
undertone, and out of sheer devilry she at once commenced a
conversation with this rejuvenated hag, who, as we learned later, was
an exportation from one of the London suburbs.
The conversation, started by Ulrica and continued by myself, proved
most amusing to us both. The old woman whose name was Blackett, had
just enough to live upon, we afterwards discovered, but came each
year to the _pension_ in order to cut a dash as a _grande dame_. Her
fingers were covered with paste jewels, and her finery was all of
that cheap and tawdry kind which affects the nerves as well as the
eyes.
"Oh, yes!" she said, in a carefully cultivated voice, intended to
show good breeding, "if this is your first visit to the Riviera,
you'll be quite charmed--everyone is charmed with it. As for
myself--" and she sighed,--"I have been here each year for I don't
know how long."
"And there is lots to see?"
"Lots. Only you must drive, you know. I myself drive at all hours
of the day, and when the moon is up I go for moonlight drives into
the mountains."
How romantic, I thought.
"I have my own coachman, you know," she added. "I keep him all the
year round."
She had led up to the conversation merely in order to inform us of
her generosity.
So throughout the meal, which occupied nearly two hours, by reason of
inadequate waiting, we continued to draw her out, humour her egotism,
and cause her to make a most ridiculous display of herself, until at
last, my sentiment changing, I felt genuinely sorry for her.
"Certainly," I remarked to Ulrica as we left the table, "this is the
most extraordinary collection of tabbies I've ever met."
"My dear," she said, "what has been puzzling me all the evening is
their place of origin. Some, I regret to say, are actually our own
compatriots. But where do they come from?"
"It's a special breed peculiar to _pensions_ on the Riviera," I
remarked; and together we ascended to the frowsy drawing-room, where
the red plush-covered furniture exuded an odour of mustiness, and the
carpet was sadly moth-eaten and thread-bare.
Around the central table a dozen angular women of uncertain age
grouped themselves and formed a sewing-party; a retired colonel, who
seemed a good fellow, buried himself in the _Contemporary_; a
decrepit old gentleman wearing a skull-cap and a shawl about his
shoulders, heaped logs upon the fire and sat with his feet on the
fender, although the atmosphere was stifling, while somebody else
induced a young lady with a voice like a file to sing a plaintive
love-song, accompanied by the untuned piano.
During my previous winters in the South I had stayed at hotels. In
my ignorance of the ways of cheap visitors to the Riviera, I believed
this congregation to be unique, but Ulrica assured me that it was
typical of all English _pensions_ along the Côte d'Azur, from Cannes
to Bordighera, and I can now fully endorse her statement.
To describe in detail the many comic scenes enacted is unnecessary.
The people were too ludicrous for words. One family in especial
endeavoured to entice us to friendliness. Its head was a very tall,
muscular, black-haired French-woman, who had married an Englishman.
The latter had died fifteen years ago, leaving her with a son and
daughter, the former a school boy of sixteen, and the latter a
fair-haired and very freckled girl of perhaps twenty. The woman's
name was Egerton, and she was of that dashing type who can wear
scarlet dresses at dinner, and whose cheeks dazzle one's eyes on
account of the rouge upon them. She was loud, coarse, and vulgar.
For the benefit of all the others, she spoke daily of the delicacies
prepared by her own _chef_, sneered at the food of the _pension_, and
ordered special messes for her own consumption. Before we had known
her an hour she had given us a description of the wonderful interior
of her house in Rome, enumerated her servants, and gave us to
understand that she was exceedingly well-off, and quite a superior
person. The people one meets on the Riviera are really very
entertaining.
Ulrica was grimly sarcastic. As we had neither intention nor
inclination to associate with this superior relict, we politely
snubbed her, taking care that it should not be done in secret.
"I don't think our effort at economy has met with very much success,"
I remarked to Ulrica, when about a week later I sat over the cup of
half-cold coffee, the stale egg, the hunk of bread and the pat of
rancid butter, which together formed my breakfast.
"No, a week of it is quite sufficient," she laughed. "We'll leave
to-morrow."
"Then you've given notice?"
"Of course. I only came here for a week's amusement. We'll go on to
the 'Grand.'"
So on the following day our trunks were called for by the hotel
omnibus, and we took up our quarters in that well-known hotel on the
Quai St. Jean Baptiste. Ulrica had known the Riviera ever since her
girlhood. With her parents she had gone abroad each autumn, had seen
most of the sights, and had thus received her education as a smart
woman.
We were in the _salon_ of the "Grand" on the night of our arrival,
when suddenly someone uttered my name. We both turned quickly, and
to our surprise saw two men we knew quite well in London standing
before us. One was Reginald Thorne, a dark-haired and more than
usually good-looking youth of about twenty-two or so, while the other
was Gerald Keppel, a thin, fair-moustached young man, some seven
years his senior, son of old Benjamin Keppel, the well-known South
African millionaire. Gerald was an old friend, but the former I knew
but slightly, having met him once or twice at dances, for in
Kensington he was among the chief of the eligibles.
"Why, my dear Miss Rosselli!" he cried enthusiastically as we shook
hands. "I'm so awfully glad to meet you! I had no idea you were
here. Gerald was here dining with me, and we caught sight of you
through the glass doors."
"Then you're staying here?" I asked.
"Yes. Gerald's staying with his guv'nor. He has a villa out at
Fabron. Have you been here long?"
"We've been in Nice a week," interposed Ulrica, "and we haven't found
a single soul we know until now. I feel sure you'll take pity upon
our loneliness, Mr. Thorne, won't you?"
"Of course!" he laughed. "I suppose you go to Monte Carlo?"
"You men think of nothing but roulette and dinners at the 'Paris,'"
she responded reproachfully, adding: "But after all, should we be
women if we had no soul for gambling? Have you had any luck this
season?"
"Can't complain," he smiled. "I've been staying over there for ten
days or so. Gerald has had quite a run of good fortune. The other
night he won the maximum on the _zero-trois_ three times."
"Congratulations, my dear Gerald!" exclaimed Ulrica approvingly.
"You shall both take us over one day and let us try our fortune--if
Mr. Thorne is agreeable."
"Delighted, I'm sure," answered the latter, glancing at me; and by
the look he gave me I felt convinced that my suspicions, aroused in
London about a year before, were not quite groundless. His glance
was a convincing proof that he admired me.
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, the ladies of the French capital 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 triumphs and all my
harmless flirtations have had their beginnings in the attraction
exercised by the dainty creations of my _couturière_. We hear much
complaining among women to the effect 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
on the Continent can always be distinguished from the English, and it
is certain that to their quiet _chic_ in frills and furbelows their
success in the marriage market 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
Pendyman's, and afterwards gossiped together over ices; but with a
woman flirtations of the ball-room 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
London; 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?"
"Certainly. Their coming is quite providential. Some of Gerald's
luck at the tables may be reflected upon us. I should dearly like to
make my expenses at roulette."
"So should I."
"There's no reason why we shouldn't," she went on. "I know quite a
lot of people who've won enough to pay for the whole winter on the
Riviera."
"Reggie has money, hasn't he?"
"Of course. The old man was on the Stock Exchange and died very
comfortably off. All of it went to Reggie, except an annuity settled
on his mother. Of course, he's spent a good deal since. A man
doesn't live in the Albany 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 shilling beyond what
the old man allowed him monthly--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 well be known as
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, as 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 by living with
her ever since my convent-days I had copied her smart ideas and
notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the hotel,
we went over with the usual crowd 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, rugged coast; purple hills clad with olives
and pines; rose, heliotrope, and geranium running riot in the gardens
of the white villas, with their marble terraces.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent,
close-smelling _salle de jeu_ at Monte Carlo, where the croupiers
were crying in 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 civilised human
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 _grand 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 brown Grimaldi rock rising
sheer from the sea to the castellated walls of the Palace; to the
right, Villefranche and San Juan dark upon the horizon,--the serrated
Esterels dark and mysterious afar; while to the left, Bordighera was
sparkling white in the sunshine. 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 not to
think during my work upon this narrative, but to try to forget all
past unhappiness. To try! Ah! I would that I could calm my
soul--steep it in a draught of such thoughtlessness that oblivion
would come! But I fear that can never, never be!
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 conceal our
sorrows so cleverly that none can suspect, for smiles make a 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 these belong to 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 passe!_" 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 Firenze had
taught me so long ago was very true: "_Amore non é 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 such fine fortune could never be. We were parted for ever--for
ever!
"Now, play this time!" I heard Reggie 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, "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 upon which the purse would not close I held doubtfully in
my hand.
"Play on the _treize-dix-huit_ this time!" urged Reggie, and I obeyed
him blindly.
As the number 18 came up, I again received another little handful of
gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my direction, and
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 was 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, strolled through those
beautiful gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and
afterwards sat on the terrace of the Café de Paris, where to the full
I enjoyed a sunset of extraordinary radiance.