MONTE CARLO—MR. VAN GINKEL’S YACHT _SARATOGA_—WE PROSPECT—
FORTUNATE DISCOVERY OF THE POINT OF ATTACK—FIRST VISIT TO THE
ROOMS
IT was a brilliant January day, mild and sunny, when Mr. Brentin,
Parsons, and I were standing in the old bastion on the point of Monaco,
straining our gaze for a glimpse of the _Amaranth_. In front stretched
the flickering, shifting pavement of the Mediterranean, of a deep,
smooth sapphire, ruffled here and there, as the nap of a hat brushed the
wrong way. Nothing to be seen on it but the one loose white sail of a
yacht drifting out of harbor past the point.
We had strolled up the long ramp from the Condamine and through the
gateway leading to the old bastions, chiefly to see whether they were
provided with guns; we were relieved to find they were not—mere
peaceable flower-walks, in fact, and already blossoming with geranium.
From the unfinished cathedral behind us in the old town, crushed and
huddled together like a Yorkshire fishing village, came the rolling
throb of the heavy mid-day bell; up from the harbor far below, the smart
bugle-call of a French corvette. Little figures in white ran about the
deck, and the tricolor fluttered from the peak. Close alongside her lay
an American yacht, the _Saratoga_, belonging to Mr. Van Ginkel, a former
friend of Mr. Brentin’s. Both the vessels caused us a considerable
amount of uneasiness; the corvette carried guns, the _Saratoga_ was
noted for her speed. It was quite uncertain how long they might continue
to grace the harbor. One could easily blow us out of the water; the
other could just as easily give us an hour’s start, take fifty men on
board, pursue, overhaul, and bring us back, flushed though in other
respects we might be with victory.
We had already been three days in Monte Carlo, and so far there had been
no sign of their departure. “If the worst comes,” said Mr. Brentin, “we
must take Van Ginkel into our confidence and indooce him to take a trip
over to San Remo on the night of our attempt. The mischief is, I am so
little of his acquaintance now I hesitate to ask so great a favor.”
“What sort of man is he?” I asked.
“Well, sir, we were classmates at Harvard in ’60. Since then, though
full of good-will, we have scarcely met. I understand, however, he has
some stomach trouble, and is ay considerable invalid.”
“Married?”
“Di-vorced. Mrs. Van Ginkel is now the Princess Danleno, of Rome, a
widow of large wealth. She owns the Villa Camellia at Cannes, and is
over here constantly, in the season, they tell me. She plays heavily on
a highly ingenious and complicated system of her own, which costs her
about as much as the _Saratoga_ costs her former husband.”
We had taken up our abode at the “Hôtel Monopôle”—a hotel recommended
to us by Mr. Bailey Thompson, by-the-way, for purposes of his own. It is
a quiet little house, up the hill, and not far from the “Victoria”;
there we had safely arrived three days before—Parsons, Brentin, Bob
Hines, and I. Forsyth, Masters, my sister Mrs. Rivers, and Miss Rybot
had embarked in the _Amaranth_ from Portsmouth a few days before we left
London, and were now about due at Monte Carlo. My brother-in-law, the
publisher, had made no difficulty to my sister’s joining the expedition,
as to the true object of which he of course knew nothing; in fact, he
was delighted she could get a holiday on the Riviera so cheaply. It was
understood she was not to play, and not to spend more than £10 _en
route_. I heard afterwards that Paternoster Row simply ran with his
brag. “I’m a bachelor just at present. My wife’s yachting in the
Mediterranean with some rich Americans. Very hospitable people; they
wanted me to come, but really, just now—” etc., etc.
We had spent our first three days, not unprofitably, in prospecting the
place. We reached Monte Carlo in the afternoon, and at once drove up to
the hotel. Almost the first thing we saw was a large board over a little
house on the hillside, close by the Crédit Lyonnais, with “_Avances sur
bijoux_” on it.
Brentin chuckled. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we sha’n’t play the game
quite so low down as that, eh? It will be either neck or nothing with
us.”
It was five o’clock before we started to go down to the Casino. We set
out in solemn silence, down the steep and glaring white road, past the
“Victoria” and the chemist’s. At the head of the gaudy, painted gardens,
that look like the supreme effort of a _modiste_, we came in full view
of the rooms. There we paused, choked, the most sensitive of us, by our
emotions.
In front there was a long strip of gay flower-beds and white pebble
paths, flanked by rows of California palms. To my excited fancy they
were the planted feather brooms of _valets-de-place_—moral
_valets-de-place_ who had set out to sweep the place clean but had never
had the courage to go further. To the right of us were the hotels—the
“St. James’s” and the “De Paris”; to the left, the Casino gardens again,
and the shallow pools where the frogs croak so dolorously at nightfall.
They are, I believe (for I am a Pythagorean), the souls of ruined
gamblers, still croaking out their _quatre premier_, their _dix-quinze_,
their _douze dernier_.
“Peace, batrachians!” I cried to them one evening, in the exalted mood
that now became common to me. “Be still, hoarse souls! push no more
shadowy stakes upon a board of shadows with your webbed fingers. We are
here to avenge ye!”
Then we went on down to the front of the rooms. There, unable to find a
seat, we leaned against a lamp-post and gloated on the fantastic
building that held our future possessions. On our left was the Café de
Paris, overflowing with _consommateurs_ at little tables under the
awning; from the swirling whirlpool of noise made by the Hungarian band
issued a maimed but recognizable English comic air. The sun was just
setting in a matchless sky of Eton blue; the breeze had dropped, and the
dingy Monaco flag over the Casino hung inert.
“Soldiers!” whispered Teddy, giving me a frightened nudge.
They were, apparently, a couple of officers of the prince’s army,
strolling round, smoking cheap cigars; they carried no side arms, and
were of no particular physique. “Besides,” I said, “they are not allowed
to enter the rooms. Don’t be so nervous, Teddy.”
“Let us go down on to the terrace,” murmured Brentin, “and view the
place from the back. We must see how close we can get the yacht up!”
So we went to the right, past the jingling omnibus crawling up from the
Condamine, down the steps, and on to the terrace facing the sea. We
passed the firemen Bailey Thompson told us we should find there, five or
six of them; one at every twenty paces, in uniform, with an odd sort of
gymnastic belt on. They were stationed at the back, too, and clearly
formed a complete protection against any possible bomb-throwing.
“There are too many of those men,” observed Brentin, irritably. “We
shall have to do something to draw them off on our great night or
they’ll get in the way.”
Then we went and looked over the balustrade of the terrace. Below us ran
the railway from Monaco; on the other side of the line, connected by an
iron bridge with the Casino terrace, was the pigeon-shooting club-house
and grounds. They formed a sort of bastion, jutting out into the sea;
the pale, wintry grass was still marked with the traps of last year.
“_That_ won’t do!” Brentin said, decisively, after a few moments’
survey. “The run’s too far over that bridge and down across the grass.
Besides, we should want rope ladders before we could get down the wall.
Come, gentlemen, let us try this way.”
We went to the extreme right of the terrace, and there, miraculously
enough, we found at once the very thing we wanted. Mr. Brentin merely
pointed at it in silence, keeping his attitude till we had all grasped
the situation. It was a rickety gate at the head of an evidently unused
flight of steps, leading down on to the railway line below. Beside it
stood a weather-worn board with “_Défense d’entrée au public_” on it. It
looked singularly out of place amid all that smart newness; but there it
was, the very thing we were in search of.
The railway below ran six or eight feet above the sea, without any
protecting parapet to speak of. Just at the angle where the
pigeon-shooting ground jutted out there was a sort of broken space,
where, for some reason (perhaps to allow the employés to descend), rocks
were piled up from the shore. A boat could be there in waiting; the
yacht could lie thirty yards off; if we had designed the place
ourselves, we couldn’t have done it better.
Mr. Brentin slowly pointed a fateful finger down the steps, across the
line, to the corner where the shore lay so close and handy.
“Do you observe it, gentlemen?” he whispered, awe-struck—“do you take
it all in? There is no tide in the Mediterranean; the edge of the sea
will always be there. Even if the night turns out as black as velvet we
could find the boat there blindfold.”
It was a solemn moment, broken only by the jingle of omnibus bells. I
felt like Wolfe when he first spied the broken path that led up the
cliff face from the St. Lawrence to the Heights of Abraham.
By accident or design, Brentin gave Teddy Parsons’s white Homburg hat a
tilt with his elbow; it tumbled off down the face of the terrace and
fell out of sight on to the line.
“There’s your chance, Teddy,” I said. “Run down the steps and fetch your
hat. You can see if there’s another gate at the bottom where that bunch
of cactus is.”
Teddy came back breathless. “There’s no sort of obstruction,” he gasped.
“It’s a clear run all the way. Only we shall have to be careful, if the
night’s dark; some of the steps are broken.” Poor Teddy, how prophetic!
We entered the rooms for the first time after dinner.
Readers who have been to Monte Carlo will remember that, before going
into the hall, there is a room on the left, where half a dozen men sit
writing cards of admission and drawing up lists of visitors. They make
no trouble about it, they simply ask you your hotel and
nationality—_Anglish, hein?_—and hand you over a pink card, good only
for one day. Then you go to the right and leave your stick. Neither
stick nor umbrella are allowed in the rooms. “Another point in our
favor,” as I whispered to Brentin.
Facing is the large hall; up and down stroll gamblers, come out for a
breath of air or the whiff of a cigarette. Any one may use it, or the
concert-room on the right, or the reading-rooms above, without a ticket;
the ticket is needed only for the gambling. You can even cash a check or
discount a bill there; for clerks are in attendance from the different
banking-houses, within and without the principality, who will attend to
your wants as a loser or take charge of your winnings.
On the left, heavy doors are constantly swinging. You can hear, if you
listen, as they swing, the faint, enticing clink of the five-franc
pieces within.
“Oh, my friends,” murmured Brentin, as we moved towards them, “support
me!”
He presented his pink card with a low bow to the two men guarding the
entrance; we followed, and the next minute were palpitating in the
stifling atmosphere of the last of the European public infernos.