CHAPTER ONE
THE TEMPLE OF CHANCE
MONTE CARLO is various kinds of a jewel. In the morning it glitters like a diamond; in the afternoon it gleams like a great pearl of the Orient; in the evening it glows with the mellow lustre of a sapphire. It has its moods of invincible beauty. There are times when one wonders if it is real and not the fabric of a dream. But of all its moods its glamour is, perhaps, most felt in that mellow moment that precedes the setting of the sun. From earth and sky exhales a great serenity. In the golden air, a thousand windows shine like casements of romance, the sea melts placidly into the tranquil sky, and the mountains breathe tenderness and calm.
It was at such a moment, reassuring to the soul, that Hugh, for the first time, mounted the seven steps that led to the temple of chance. The sun gleamed on the brass rods of the carpet, gleamed on the gold braid of the four porters who guarded the entrance, gleamed on the buttons of the little page boys that swung open the double doors. Behind the glass partition, leaning on a brass rail, and scrutinizing every one who climbed the steps, were three detectives. Characteristic of the place,—the eager welcome; the watching detectives!
Hugh mounted the steps and paused at the top, just as he had seen so many others pause to look over the scene.
Beyond the “Cheese,” the central garden was a vivid emerald, enamelled with patterns of pansies; a breeze, pure and delicious, rustled the palms. Daintily dressed children were throwing crumbs to the lethargic pigeons. A shining Rolls Royce floated past and anchored in front of the Hotel de Paris, while a tall negro in a swallow-tail uniform descended in stately fashion and opened its doors. The space in front of the Café de Paris was starred with striped umbrellas and coloured with gay groups. The Roumanian orchestra was playing with sparkling abandon and a crowd was whirling around the “Cheese.” The English dominated the throng;—tall, thin women with patrician noses, tall, thin men with grey hair and lean, fresh faces. It was a suave picture of elegance and ease.
Turning to the left Hugh entered the bureau of admission. The Nice train had just come in and behind the high curved counter the clerks cowered before the clamouring crowd. Seated at a commanding desk was the chief of the bureau, an owl like man with a crabbed air; he was the final arbitror, the judge from whom there was no appeal. Before him was a Swiss aubergiste who was trying to explain that if the clothes he wore were not good enough for the Casino, he could change them for better. Another rejected one, a stout woman who had foolishly given her occupation as a dress-maker, was pointing out that the lady ahead of her who had just been granted a card was a femme galante, one of her clients who even owed her money. But to such protests no attention was paid. A blank look, a shrug of the shoulders,—that was all. Judged by Casino standards and found wanting, they had to go away disconsolate.
Hugh, however, had no such trouble. A brisk little interpreter bustled up; and he slipped a bill into the man’s hand. He was pushed forward in front of the others.
“This gentleman is known to me,” said the interpreter with fluent audacity. “He is a celebrated artist dramatic de Londres.”
So Hugh assumed the air of a jeune premier, and with many polite smiles was handed a card.
“Now,” he murmured, “for the next step in the gambler’s progress!” A courteous flunkey ushered him into the atrium, a galleried hall designed to impress the visitor and put him in the proper frame of mind to enter the Rooms. It was of staid richness, of sober dignity. Through a vista of marble columns Hugh saw a circular refreshment counter, and nearby a bulletin board where a group were reading the latest despatches from the ends of the earth. On leather-padded benches men were smoking cigarettes, and women gossiping and criticizing all who passed. Other men and women strolled up and down, taking a breath of air after a strenuous spell at the tables. He overheard scraps of conversation.
“Well, I’ve made my day, but the bank gave me a hard fight for it.” “Yes, a martingale’s deadly. It will always get you in the end.”
Looking towards the left he saw three mysterious doors. From the center one a stream of people was pouring, with an expression on their faces of either impassivity or disgust, elation was rare. By the side doors another crowd was entering. Those to the left were eager and excited; those to the right calm and blasé. These were the respective doors for the visitor and the habitué. It was through the visitors’ door that Hugh passed. At last! He was on the threshold of the greatest gambling room on earth.
First impression,—nasal. How could people breathe such air? It struck him like a blow in the face. It was so thick, so richly human,—a compound of physical exhalations, cheap cosmetics and disease. It almost daunted him. Second impression,—oral. A confused murmur of many voices. A discreet rumble, punctuated by the acrid cries of the croupiers and the click of rakes on counters. Third impression,—visual. To the right and left were walls of human backs surrounding pools of light. The light came from green shaded lamps that hung from heavy cords. Peering over a triple row of shoulders he caught a glimpse of a green table and a scuttling ball.
He passed through a smaller room into a great central one. In contrast with the restful dignity of the atrium it was of a brilliant beauty. Huge columns of honey-coloured onyx seemed to strike the note of the decoration. Everything was in the same key, from the padded seats of yellow leather to the Watteau-like panels painted on the wall. Two immense chandeliers were tangles of gilt on which lights clustered like grapes on a vine. Everything seemed to shine, glisten, reflect. Even the inlaid floor was lustrous with the polish of a million gliding feet. Just as he had called the smaller room by the entrance the “Grey Room,” so he called this the “Hall of Light.” From the gleaming floor to the vast dome it suggested light.
There were five tables, and each was besieged by gamblers. Those in the outer row stretched and strained to get their money on the table, marking the numbers in glazed note-books, shouting their manner of staking, squabbling and scrambling for their gains. Hugh felt a little bewildered.
As he stood there a very curious thing happened. A tall, distinguished-looking woman, wearing a cream-coloured mantle, advanced to the centre of the hall. She took from under her mantle a plate of white china and deliberately let it fall to the floor. At the sharp crash those nearest turned, and in an instant she was surrounded by a curious crowd. Then as quietly as she had come she backed out and disappeared. Two attendants in light blue came forward and calmly gathered up the debris. The crowd, laughing, returned to the tables.
While Hugh was wondering what it meant, the affable little Mr. Jarvis Tope bustled up to him. Mr. Tope wore a white waistcoat and white spats, and was, as the French say, “pinned at the four corners.” His round red face was wreathed in a smile of welcome.
“Ha! young man, so at last you venture into the cave of the dragon. Well, it’s good to see a fresh face among so many stale ones. What was all the excitement about?”
Hugh told him of the lady and the plate. Tope laughed.
“Oh, is that all! Didn’t you know that to break china on the floor of the Casino is supposed to change one’s luck? It’s rather a desperate resort. The lady you saw must have been hard hit. Women believe in those things, mascots and so on. They bet on the number of their cloakroom check; they have their favourite tables and believe that the croupier can control the ball. Every woman who believes in any of these things is a fool; it’s astonishing how many are fools. Come, I’ll explain the game to you.”
Going to what Mr. Tope called the “Suicide Table,” they pushed themselves into the triple row of standing spectators till they were behind the seat holders. These had a sphynx-like air of absorption. Piles of counters were methodically stacked before them, and their little note-books were scrupulously neat. Some were marking down dots and zig-zag lines, some columns of figures. They played occasionally and with deliberation. They were the regulars, the system workers, who sat every day in the same place at the same table.
While Mr. Tope was explaining the different methods of playing, Hugh felt a light touch on his arm. Looking round he saw a sweet if somewhat over-emphasized face smiling up at him. The girl wore a bonnet that seemed to be made of tiny lilac flowers, and her hands were daintily gloved. Hugh thought at first that she had mistaken him for somebody else.
“Listen, Monsieur. Lend me a louis. It will bring you luck.”
But Mr. Tope frowned. “Don’t do it. Pretend you have no money.”
Hugh awkwardly refused, and with a little grimace the girl went away.
“One of the parasites of the place,” said Mr. Tope. “The Casino’s full of them. She spotted you at once for a newcomer. She’s on the watch for greenhorns. Now she’ll tell her sisterhood that you turned her down, and you’ll be less pestered. Never speak to a woman you don’t know on the floor of the Casino. In the end it will cost you money.”
“I wonder the management doesn’t stop that sort of thing.”
“They encourage everything that speeds up the gambling. Morality doesn’t exist as far as they are concerned. All they want is to get your coin; and in the end they usually do.”
“Do they get yours?”
“Oh, yes, I lose sometimes. There’s a class of people who tell you they never lose. They’re known as the liars.”
“That was a very pretty girl who spoke to me.”
“Yes. There’s a story about her. She was engaged to a Frenchman who went to America and established himself in business. He sent her money to buy her trousseau, and to pay her passage over. She was crazy about him, all eagerness to join him; but she was tempted to risk a little of the money at the tables. In the end she lost it all. She dared not tell him, so she never answered his letters. Since then she has lived a hectic existence. She’s an incurable gambler. A ruined life.... But come, I want to introduce you to two of the oldest habitués of the Rooms, veterans like myself. Mr. Galloway MacTaggart of Strathbungo.”
Hugh was forthwith presented to a tall wiry man, who enveloped his hand in a large dry grip. He had a grim spectacled face and thin-grey whiskers.
“Welcome, malad,” said Mr. MacTaggart. “The Fraternal Order o’ the Veeatic bids ye welcome tae this den o’ ineequity. And noo, if ye’ll alloo me, I’ll present ye tae the Grand Maister, Mr. Gimp o’ Cincinnati. Mr. Gimp has the disteenction o’ bein’ the auldest member.”
Mr. Gimp was small and wiry. He was the neatest man Hugh had ever seen; even his eyes were neat. He had a puckered pink face, and white silky hair like the floss of the thistle. His moustache was like a wisp of cotton. He extracted the thumb of his right hand from the armhole of his waistcoat and presented two fingers for Hugh to wag solemnly.
“Gimp’s feeling peevish,” said Mr. Tope. “He’s just won five francs and lost ten.”
“Never play the goddamn game,” snorted Mr. Gimp. “When you catch me putting a cent on those tables, you can call me a goddamn fool and kick me round the ‘Camembert.’”
“Well, after coming here for thirty years without missing a season you ought to have enough of it.”
“Darned sight too much. No place for a respectable man! Never enter the Rooms unless I’m obliged to. Just come in now to look for a friend. A hotbed of crooks and courtesans. Yes, and spies. Look at that damn inspector edging nearer to see if he can’t hear what we are talking about. Bah! Look at that woman now. Why, she’d make a rotten egg smell like a rose. Well, I can’t stand it any longer. I’m off to breathe God’s good air. Au revoir.”
With that Mr. Gimp stalked virtuously away. “He’s always like that,” remarked Mr. MacTaggart dryly. “An’ if ye come in the Casino an ’oor from noo ye’ll find him smokin’ his cigarette in the atrium. He’s one o’ the fixtures o’ the place. It wouldna’ be complete withoot him. An’ there’s a whole lot mair in the same boax. A man frae Brazeel went aff his heid in the Rooms the ither day. ‘Puir Chap!’ they were a-sayin’, but I telt them, ‘He’s nae worse nor the rest o’ us. We’re a’ daft in this establishment.’ Whit’s yer impression o’ it, young man?”
“I’m surprised to see so many old people in the Rooms.”
“That’s right. Gamblin’s the last infirmity of ignoble minds. When folks are ower dodderin’ for wine an’ wimmen, gamblin’s a’ that’s left tae them. Look at that auld Bianca there. They say she wis the mistress o’ the King o’ Italy. Whit things she must hae seen! Noo she goes roon like a spectre mumblin’ an’ breakin’ wind every time she plays. Weel, I’m feelin’ auld an’ tired masel. Ma nerves are no whit they were. There’s nae doot it gets ye. It’s a crool, crool game....”
They sought the fresher air of the atrium and lighting their cigarettes sat down on a recessed divan of padded leather.
“MacTaggart is our great hope,” said Mr. Tope. “He is patience and pertinacity personified. He has now been sitting at the same place at the same table from the beginning of the play to the end for two years.”
“For three years,” said Mr. MacTaggart. “I’ve got the record o’ two hundred thoosand consecutive coups.”
“MacTaggart claims he knows more about roulette than all the rest of us put together.”
“So I do. Ye’re like a lot o’ children. Ye ken naethin’. When ye’ve spent night after night for three years compilin’ an’ analyzin’ permanencies, ye’ll begin tae hae some glimmerin’ o’ the mysterious workin’s o’ the laws o’ chance. I’ve studied the game noo for twenty years and I’m jist beginnin’ tae know a little, a verry little.”
“Look!” said Mr. Tope, “there’s that poor little Emslie girl waiting as usual for her mother.”
On one of the benches near the exit from the Rooms Hugh saw a slight girl with a very sweet face. Her chestnut hair was braided behind and her colouring was fresh, and girlish. She sat with her slim hands clasped in her lap, looking anxious and forlorn.
“That,” said Mr. Tope, who seemed to know everything and everybody, “is one of the hardest cases. She’s only sixteen, and has been left a few thousand pounds by her grandfather. But her mother’s a gambler enragée. She’s lost all her own money, and now they say she’s playing with the girl’s.”
At that moment a woman came from the Rooms, and the girl ran to her eagerly. The woman was tall and handsome, and her face was alight with joy. Opening her gold chain bag, she showed the girl the contents. They both laughed, almost hysterically, and went off arm in arm. With a start Hugh recognized the cream-coloured cape; it was the lady who had broken the plate.
In the days that followed Hugh came to know the great building intimately. He gave fanciful names to the various Rooms. Beyond the “Hall of Light,” as he called the main gambling room, was the “Hall of Gloom.” In decoration it was heavy, dark, depressing. There was something Teutonic about it, even to the panels of lumpish Amazons that filled in the wall spaces. On the only occasion he played there, he came away whistling the “Dead March.”
To the right of the “Hall of Light” was a little gem of a room which contained only one table. He called it the “Room of the Opium Dreamer,” on account of the exquisitely painted ceiling of naked nymphs voluptuously sprawling on fleecy clouds. Its windows looked on the terrace and often he pulled aside the silken blind to marvel at the radiant beauty of the sea. The air in this room was unusually bad.
Beyond this was what he called the “Hall of the Three Graces,” on account of the huge wall panel that dominated it. It represented three nude women against a Florentine background. Mr. Tope gave him some curious information about this picture.
“These,” he said, “were three demi-mondaines, frequenters of the Casino. They claimed to be Swiss: but it turned out that they were Austrian spies in the pay of Germany.”
Hugh looked at them with a new interest.
“When war was declared all three cleared out in a hurry. The directer himself had to get away. He had, they say, gotten the Casino Company to acquire the golf links on Mont Agel, and right under the eyes of the French garrison he had all prepared for the installation of a wireless outfit. It was an ex-captain of Uhlans. His son made a demonstration in favour of Germany in front of the Casino and was mobbed.... Oh, this was a great place before the war, a hotbed of treason. I’m told the French Government had to put pressure on the Government of Monaco to clear them out. And now they’re creeping back again.”
Hugh soon came to recognize the various types that frequented the place. The women known as the skimmers particularly interested him. They haunted the Rooms, hovering over the tables and waiting for a chance to grab the stakes of others. They were the cause of most of the disputes. In the course of an afternoon a dozen of these rows would occur. As a rule, the croupiers discreetly professed ignorance of the cause. Although the disputants often called one another nasty names, Hugh saw them come to blows only on one occasion.
A Russian woman, said to be a princess ruined by the Bolshevics, was playing steadily. Twice a Frenchwoman with a face like a bulldog, reached out and grabbed her winning stake. The Russian looked puzzled, but said nothing; she only watched and waited. As the Frenchwoman reached forward a third time she cried “Thief!”
The Frenchwoman promptly slapped her face. The Russian looked at her in steady contempt, shrugged her shoulders and turned to go. Then a fury seized her, and swinging round, she struck the Frenchwoman a violent blow, clutched at her hat, her hair, tugged, scratched, slapped, a very wild cat of fury. The attendants separated them. The Russian was marched off; the Frenchwoman dried her tears and declared triumphantly that the other would lose her ticket. But presently when the attendants returned, she, too, was led off. Hugh never saw either of them in the Casino again.
He spent long hours studying the play. He took down numbers and poured over the permanencies. He felt quite at home now. He had a monthly card, and was confident, even eager to begin. One evening he left the Rooms with his mind made up.
“To-morrow I cease to be a spectator. To-morrow I commence to play.”