BEFORE I go a step further in this narrative I must really animadvert to the subject of restaurants and the haute cuisine of France generally, for in this matter Barfleur was as keen as the greatest connoisseurs are in the matter of pictures. He loved and remembered the quality of dishes and the method of their preparation and the character of the men who prepared them and the atmosphere in which they were prepared and in fact everything which relates to the culinary and gastronomic arts and the history of the gourmet generally.
In Paris and London Barfleur was constantly talking of the restaurants of importance and contrasting the borrowed French atmosphere of the best English restaurants with the glories of the parent kitchens in France. He literally schooled me in the distinction which was to be drawn between the Café Anglais, Voisin’s and Paillard’s, and those smart after-supper restaurants of the Montmartre district where the cuisine of France had been degraded by the addition of negroes, tinsel, dancers, and music. Nevertheless he was willing to admit that their cuisine was not bad. As I remember it now, I was advised to breakfast at Henry’s, to dine at the Ritz, and to sup at Durand’s; but if I chose to substitute the Café de Paris for the Ritz at dinner I was not going far wrong. He knew that M. Braquesec, the younger, was now in charge of Voisin’s and that Paul was the maître d’hôtel and that during the Commune Voisin’s had once served consommé d’éléphant, le chameau roti à l’Anglais, and le chat planqué de rats. He thought it must have been quite excellent because M. Braquesec, the elder, supervised it all and because the wines served with it were from twenty to forty years of age.
When it came to the Riviera he was well aware of all that region had to promise from Cannes to Mentone; and he could nicely differentiate the advantages of the Café de Paris; the grand dining-room of the Hôtel de Paris which was across the street; the Hermitage, which he insisted had quite the most beautiful dining-room in Monte Carlo; the Princess which one of the great stars of the opera had very regularly patronized some years before; the restaurant of the Grand Hotel which he considered very exceptional indeed; and the restaurant at the terminus of the La Turbie mountain railway—which he emphatically approved and which commanded a magnificent view of the coast and the sea. I was drilled to understand that if I had mostelle à l’Anglais at the Hôtel de Paris I was having a very excellent fish of the country, served in the very best manner, which is truly worth knowing. If we went to the Princess, the maître d’hôtel, whom he knew from an older day, would serve us midgeon in some marvelous manner which would be something for me to remember. At the Café de Paris we were to have soupe Monègasque which had a reminiscence, so he insisted, of Bouillabaisse and was very excellent. The soupions were octopi, but delicate little ones—not the kind that would be thrust upon one in Rome. I was lost among discourses regarding the value of the Regents at Nice; the art of M. Fleury, now the manager of the Hôtel de Paris; and what a certain head-master could do for one in the way of providing a little local color, as Barfleur termed it, in the food. To all of this, not being a gourmet, I paid as strict attention as I could; though I fear me much, that a large proportion of the exquisite significance of it all was lost on me. I can only say, however, that in spite of Scorp’s jeering, which was constant, the only time we had a really wonderful repast was when Barfleur ordered it.
The first luncheon at the Admiralty was an excellent case in point. Barfleur being on the Riviera and being host to several, was in the most stupendous of artistic moods. He made up a menu of the most delicious of hors d’œuvre—which he insisted should never have been allowed to take the place of soup, but which, alas, the custom of the time sanctioned and the caviare of which in this case was gray, a point which he wished me particularly to note—sole walewski; roast lamb; salad nicois; and Genoese asparagus in order to give our meal the flavor of the land. We had coffee on the balcony afterwards, and I heard much concerning the wonders of this region and of the time when the Winter Palace was the place to lunch. A grand duke was a part of the day’s ensemble, and two famous English authors before whom we paraded with dignity.
After lunch we made our way to the Hôtel Bella Riva, which Barfleur in spite of Scorp’s complaints had finally selected. It stood on a splendid rise between Mentone and Monte Carlo; and here, after some slight bargaining we were assigned to three rooms en suite with bath. I was given the corner room with two balconies and a flood of sunshine and such a view as I have never seen from any window before or since. Straight before me lay the length of Cap Martin, a grove of thousands of olive trees reflecting from its burnished leaves the rays of the sun and crowding it completely, and beyond it the delicious sweep of the Mediterranean. To the right lay the bay of Monte Carlo, the heights of La Turbie, and all the glittering world which is Monte Carlo proper. To the left lay Mentone and the green and snow-capped mountains of Ventimiglia and San Remo faintly visible in the distance. Never an hour but the waters of the sea were a lighter or a darker shade of blue and never an hour but a lonely sail was crossing in the foreground. High above the inn at La Turbie, faintly visible in the distance, rose a ruined column of Augustus—a broken memory of the time when imperial Rome was dominant here, and when the Roman legions passed this way to Spain. At different hours I could hear the bugle of some frontier garrison sounding reveille, guard-mount, and the sun-set call. Oh, those wonderful mornings when I was waked by the clear note of a horn flying up the valleys of the mountains and sounding over the sea!
Immediately after our arrival it was settled that once we had made a swift toilet we would start for Monte Carlo. We were ready to bring back tremendous winnings—and eager to see this showy world, the like of which, Scorp insisted, was not to be found elsewhere.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “I have been to Biarritz and to Ostend and Aix-les-Bains—but they are not like this. We really should live at the Palace where we could walk on the terrace in the morning and watch the pigeon-shooting.” He told a significant story of how once having a toothache he came out of the card-rooms of the Casino into the grand lobby and attempted to pour a little laudanum out of a thin vial, with which to ease the pain. “I stepped behind a column,” he explained, “so that I might not be seen; but just as I uncorked the vial four guards seized me and hurried me out of the place. They thought I was taking poison. I had to make plain my identity to the management before they would let me back.”
We arrived at the edge of the corporation which is Monte Carlo and walked in, surveying the character of the place. It was as gaudy and rococoesque as one might well expect this world to be. It reminded me in part of that Parisian world which one finds about the Arc de Triomphe, rich and comfortable, only there are no carriages in Monte Carlo to speak of. The distances are too slight and the grades too steep. When we reached the square of the Casino, it did not strike me as having any especial charm. It was small and sloping, and laid off in square beds of reddish flowers with greensward about and gravel paths going down either side. At the foot lay the Casino, ornate and cream-white, with a glass and iron canopy over the door and a swarm of people moving to and fro—not an idling throng but rather having an air of considerable industry about it, quite as one might expect to find in a business world. People were bustling along as we were to get to the Casino or to go away from it on some errand and get back. We hurried down the short length of the sward, checking our coats, after waiting a lengthy time for our turn in line, and then entering the chambers where credentials are examined and cards of admission sold. There was quite some formality about this, letters being examined, our personal signature and home address taken and then we were ready to enter.
While Barfleur presented our credentials, Sir Scorp and I strolled about in the lobby observing the inpouring and outpouring throng. He showed me the exact pillar where he had attempted to ease his tooth. This was an interesting world of forceful people. The German, the Italian, the American, the Englishman and the Russian were easily recognizable. Sir Scorp was convinced that the faces of the winners and the losers could be distinguished, but I am afraid I was not enough of a physiognomist to do this. If there were any who had just lost their last dollar I did not detect them. On the contrary it seemed to me that the majority were abnormally cheerful and were having the best time in the world. A large bar at the end of the room opposite the general entrance to the card-rooms had a peculiarly American appearance. The one thing that was evident was that all here were healthy and vigorous, with a love of life in their veins, eager to be entertained, and having the means in a large majority of cases to accomplish this end. It struck me here as it has in so many other places where great pleasure-loving throngs congregate, that the difference between the person who has something and the person who has nothing is one of intense desire, and what, for a better phrase, I will call a capacity to live.
The inner chambers of the Casino were divided into two groups, the outer being somewhat less ornately decorated and housing those who for reasons of economy prefer to be less exclusive, and the inner more elaborate in decoration and having of an evening, it was said, a more gorgeously dressed throng. Just why one should choose less expensive rooms when gambling, unless low in funds, I could not guess. Those in both sets of rooms seemed to have enough money to gamble. I could not see, after some experience, that there was very much difference. The players seemed to wander rather indiscriminately through both sets of rooms. Certainly we did. An extra charge of five louis was made for the season’s privilege of entering the inner group or “Cirque privé” as it was called.
I shall never forget my first sight of the famous gaming-tables in the outer rooms—for we were not venturing into the inner at present. Aside from the glamour of the crowd—which was as impressive as an opera first night—and the decorative quality of the room which was unduly rich and brilliant, I was most vividly impressed by the vast quantities of money scattered so freely over the tables, small piles of gold louis, stacks of eight, ten, fifteen and even twenty-five franc pieces, layers of pale crisp bank-notes whose value was anywhere from one hundred to one thousand francs. It was like looking through the cashier’s window of an immense bank. The mechanism and manipulation of the roulette wheel I did not understand at first nor the exact duties of the many croupiers seated at each table. Their cry of “Rien ne va plus!” and the subsequent scraping together of the shining coin with the little rakes or the throwing back of silver, gold and notes to the lucky winner gripped my attention like a vise. “Great God!” I thought, “supposing I was to win a thousand pounds with my fifteen. I should stay in Europe an entire year.”
Like all beginners I watched the process with large eyes and then seeing Barfleur get back five gold louis for one placed on a certain number I ventured one of my own. Result: three louis. I tried again on another number and won two more. I saw myself (in fancy) the happy possessor of a thousand pounds. My next adventure cost me two louis, whereupon I began to wonder whether I was such a fortunate player after all.
“Come with me,” Barfleur said, coming around to where I stood adventuring my small sums with indescribable excitement and taking my arm genially. “I want to send some money to my mother for luck. I’ve just won fifteen pounds.”
“Talk about superstition,” I replied, coming away from the table, “I didn’t believe it of you.”
“I’m discovered!” he smiled philosophically; “besides I want to send some sweets to the children.”
We strolled out into the bright afternoon sun finding the terrace comparatively empty, for the Casino draws most of the crowd during the middle and late afternoon. It was strange to leave these shaded, artificially lighted rooms with their swarms of well-dressed men and women sitting about or bending over tables all riveted on the one thrilling thing—the drop of the little white ball in a certain pocket—and come out into the glittering white world with its blazing sun, its visible blue sea, its cream-colored buildings and its waving palms. We went to several shops—one for sweets and one for flowers, haut parisiennes in their atmosphere—and duly dispatched our purchases. Then we went to the post-office, plastered with instructions in various languages, and saw that the money was sent to Barfleur’s mother. Then we returned to the Casino and Barfleur went his way, while I wandered from board to board studying the crowd, risking an occasional louis, and finally managing to lose three pounds more than I had won. In despair I went to see what Scorp was doing. He had three or four stacks of gold coin in front of him at a certain table, all of five hundred dollars. He was risking these in small stacks of ten and fifteen louis and made no sign when he won or lost. On several occasions I thought he was certain to win a great sum, so lavishly were gold louis thrown him by the croupier, but on others I felt equally sure he was to be disposed of, so freely were his gold pieces scraped away from him.
“How are you making out?” I asked.
“I think I’ve lost eight hundred francs. If I should win this though, I’ll risk a bee-a.”
“What’s a bee-a?”
“A thousand franc note.”
My poor little three louis seemed suddenly insignificant. A lady sitting next to him, a woman of perhaps fifty, with a cool, calculating face had perhaps as much as two thousand dollars in gold and notes piled up before her. All around the table were these piles of gold, silver and notes. It was a fascinating scene.
“There, that ends me,” observed Scorp, all at once, his stock of gold on certain numbers disappearing with the rake of the croupier. “Now I’m done. We might walk out in the lobby and watch the crowd.” All his good gold so quietly raked in by the croupier was lingering painfully in my memory. I was beginning to see plainly that I would not make a good gambler. Such a loss distressed me.
“How much did you lose?” I inquired.
“Oh, a thousand francs,” he replied.
We strolled up and down, Scorp commenting sarcastically on one type and another and yet with a genial tolerance which was amusing.
I remember a charming-looking cocotte, a radiant type of brunette, with finely chiseled features, slim, delicate fingers, a dainty little foot, who, clad in a fetching costume of black and white silk which fitted her with all the airy grace of a bon-bon ribbon about its box, stood looking uncertainly about as if she expected to meet some one.
“Look at her,” Scorp commented with that biting little ha! ha! of his, which involved the greatest depths of critical sarcasm imaginable. “There she is. She’s lost her last louis and she’s looking for some one to pay for her dinner!”
I had to smile to myself at the man’s croaking indifference to the lady’s beauty. Her obvious charms had not the slightest interest for him.
Of another lovely creature who went by with her head held high and her lips parted in a fetching, coaxing way he observed, “She practises that in front of her mirror!” and finding nothing else to attack, finally turned to me. “I say, it’s a wonder you don’t take a cocktail. There’s your American bar.”
“It’s the wrong time, Scorp,” I replied. “You don’t understand the art of cocktail drinking.”
“I should hope not!” he returned morosely.
Finally after much more criticism of the same sort Barfleur arrived, having lost ten louis, and we adjourned for tea. As usual an interesting argument arose now not only as to where we were to dine, but how we were to live our very lives in Monte Carlo.
“Now I should think,” said Barfleur, “it would be nice if we were to dine at the Princess. You can get sole and canard à la presse there and their wines are excellent. Besides we can’t drive to the Bella Riva every evening.”
“Just as I thought!” commented Scorp bitterly. “Just as I thought. Now that we are staying at Bella Riva, a half hour or so away, we will dine in Monte Carlo. I knew it. We will do no such thing. We will go back to the Bella Riva, change our clothes, dine simply and inexpensively [this from the man who had just lost a thousand francs] come back here, buy our tickets for the Cirque privé and gamble inside. First we go to Agay and spend a doleful time among a lot of peasants and now we hang around the outer rooms of the Casino. We can’t live at the Hôtel de Paris or enter the Cirque privé but we can dine at the Princess. Ha! ha! Well, we will do no such thing. Besides, a little fasting will not do you any harm. You need not waste all your money on your stomach.”
The man had a gay acidity which delighted me.
Barfleur merely contemplated the ceiling of the lobby where we were gathered while Sir Scorp rattled on in this fashion.
“I expected to get tickets for the Cirque privé—” he soothed and added suggestively, “It will cost at least twenty francs to drive over to the Bella Riva.”
“Exactly!” replied Scorp. “As I predicted. We can’t live in Monte Carlo but we can pay twenty francs to get over to Cap Martin. Thank Heaven there are still street cars. I do not need to spend all my money on shabby carriages, riding out in the cold!” (It was a heavenly night.)
“I think we’d better dine at the Princess and go home early,” pleaded Barfleur. “We’re all tired. To-morrow I suggest that we go up to La Turbie for lunch. That will prove a nice diversion and after that we’ll come down and get our tickets for the Cirque privé. Come now. Do be reasonable. Dreiser ought to see something of the restaurant life of Monte Carlo.”
As usual Barfleur won. We did go to the Café Princess. We did have sole Normande. We did have canard à la presse. We did have some excellent wine and Barfleur was in his glory.