“MARGOT, would you mind coming here a moment?”
The girl was drying her hands after washing the supper dishes. “Yes, monsieur.”
“Oh, I say, I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘monsieur.’ It sounds as if I were treating you like a servant.”
The girl was silent. Hugh went on.
“Why can’t you call me by my first name, as I do you? If you don’t, I shall think you dislike me.”
“Oh, please don’t think that. I would do anything to please you.”
“Then why be so unfriendly?”
“I don’t mean to. But ... it’s hard.”
“Why?”
“Well ... there’s such a difference between us. I am only a poor girl, a nobody. You are....”
“No better than you are. Perhaps I’ve had just as hard a struggle in life as you have. I’ve always been poor. I’m poor now. I want to think you are my little sister, and I am your big brother. You must do the same.”
“I’ll try. Please give me a little time. Perhaps, it will be easier.”
“All right. And now please come here. I’d like you to look at something.”
He was sitting at the table with a big green book before him. Each page was filled with columns and columns of figures. His face was eager, his eyes sparkling.
“You know, I’m going to begin playing to-morrow.”
“Oh, please don’t. It’s terrible how it gets a hold of you. And in the end it always means ruin.”
“You don’t know me. I’m a pretty obstinate sort of chap. I’m going to gamble. Maybe I wanted to do so all along, and only waited for the excuse you’ve given me.”
“What excuse?”
“To win back the money you lost.”
“You’re not going to gamble on my account.”
“Of course, I am.”
“I will refuse to take the money.”
“All the same I am going to win it.”
“After that you’ll stop?”
“I don’t know.... There, don’t be so frightened. Come closer and look at these figures.”
On a sheet of paper he had made the following diagram:
“The seven dots,” he explained, “represent a run of seven or more on any of the simple chances. The run breaks as you see, then returns once again. It’s a well-known formation. Well, I’ve got to get that before I begin to play.”
“But it doesn’t happen very often,—only three or four times at a table in the course of the day’s play.”
“Yes, but I have the run of all the tables, fourteen of them. I can range the whole place. By glancing over the shoulders of those who are taking numbers, I can tell if there is anything in my line. When I find the combination I am seeking, I start staking in louis the sums I have marked.”
“You only stake one the second time....”
“Yes, that’s a buffer. I neither win nor lose if I gain that coup. I have to do that in order to ease up on my progression. Otherwise it would increase too rapidly. Then on the third, fourth, and fifth terms of my progression, I stand to win a louis only, but on the sixth term I win two louis, and on the seventh term, four. I use this progression because I have only a hundred louis at my disposal. I want to make a progression of seven terms, and I want my gains to increase as my stake increases. The great defect of the ordinary martingale is that you often find yourself obliged to risk quite a big sum to win a single unit.”
She continued to look at the figures frowningly.
“You see,” he went on eagerly, “to beat me the bank will have to follow up the first big run of seven or more by a second of eight, after a single break. Now I have examined a book of the records of the play at the second table for a whole year, and I haven’t found a single case of this happening. So you see, I feel pretty safe. I only want to make three wins a day, three louis. At that rate, in about seven weeks I shall have all your money back. You can return to Paris, start your shop, and live happily ever after. Great scheme, isn’t it?”
“What if you lose?”
“I can’t. It isn’t conceivable.”
“In roulette it’s always the inconceivable that happens.”
“No, I’m quite convinced. Armed with this system, I am going to the Casino just as confidently as if I were going to draw money from the bank. Of course, I know it means patience, watching, walking miles between tables; but that will be fun. I don’t want to win too easily.”
He continued to pore over his records, and she went softly about her work. When she had finished she looked toward him. In the shaded lamp-light his face was joyously eager; he was tapping his white teeth with his pencil, and his eyes were absorbed.
“Good-night,” she said timidly.
“Good-night,” he answered absently, without looking up.
He worked very late over his permanencies and awoke to bright sunshine, and the fragrance of fresh coffee.
He had divided the room in two by a heavy green curtain. The part with the door and the little cabinet de cuisine was the living part; the other was for sleeping. This he had divided still further by a grey curtain so that they each had a little compartment with a bed. The girl seemed doubtful of this arrangement at first.
“I don’t see why it matters,” he said indignantly, “whether there is a curtain or a three foot wall between us. Remember we are brother and sister. Honour and decency are better protectors than bolts and bars.”
With this fine sentiment he disposed of her objections. There was no doubt he thoroughly believed it; and when he retired more or less weary behind his curtain, he slept as calmly as if he were alone in the room.
On this particular morning, having slept late and well, he rose light-heartedly, singing as he dressed. When he entered that part of the room that served them in common, he found that Margot had set his breakfast on the table, and was preparing to go to market. She was dressed like the women of the country, with a shawl over her bright hair. Each morning she would ask him:
“What would you like for lunch?”
“Oh, anything; I don’t care.”
“No, don’t say you don’t care. You know I like to please you.”
Then he would think profoundly. “I tell you what, ... Give me ... a surprise.”
With a gesture of despair she would go away. She was rather a good cook, but he seldom noticed what he ate. Now he stopped her as she was going out. “Had your breakfast?”
“Oh, yes, long ago.”
“I wish you would call me in the morning so that we can take it together. I like you to talk to me while I’m eating. Sit down and talk now. You’re not in such a hurry. Come, take a cigarette.”
“You know I never smoke.”
“I wish you would. It’s so chummy. Anyway, sit down. That’s right. Your hair’s lovely when it glistens in the sunshine. You know, you’re looking ever so much better already. Your chin is getting round, and there is actually a delicate rose colour in your cheeks. Your face is far more English than French. Some day if you’ll pose for me, I’ll paint you. This coffee’s awfully nice....” As he rattled on in his gay manner, the girl listened with a grave smile. There was a curious look in her eyes, a tenderness almost maternal.
“I say,” he went on, “I didn’t tell you I went to the Pension Paoli yesterday. I had a talk with Terese, the black-eyed Terese. She gave me some news.”
“Yes, what?”
“You remember that unsavoury sort of a chap who made such a bad impression on everybody,—I used to call him the Rat.”
“I never liked him.”
“Well, do you know what the mystery was that seemed to surround him? The poor harmless fellow was a priest, a curé who had slipped away from his flock, dressed in everyday clothes, and was having a good time. I don’t blame him, poor devil. He wanted to be free, to taste life just once, before going back to his black skirts and his prayer-book. I expect he’s doing bitter penance for it now. He was recognized by an old abbé and there was no end of a row. He was haled off by two burly priests, crying like a child.”
“It just shows how one should never judge people.”
“And you remember those two Swede women?”
“They enjoyed eating so much.”
“Yes, and they declared some one had entered their room and stolen money? That, too, was wrong. The mother came the other day to the pension and told madame the money had been found. The girl had put it between the pages of a very dull novel. When she came to finish the book she found the bills. So all’s well that ends well.” The girl said nothing. She remembered that he had once suspected her of taking this money, and the thought still pained her. “Come on,” he continued gaily, “let’s go out together. Remember to-day I leap into the arena. To-day I make my début as a gambler.”
It was half past ten when Hugh entered the Casino.
The Rooms in the forenoon presented a very different aspect from the one with which he was familiar. The air, though stagnant, was not obnoxious. The rumble of voices was subdued to a discreet hum. Only five roulette tables were running. Every one had an air of knowing every one else. In place of the fever and scrabble of the afternoon there was a suave and amiable courtesy. The regular Monte Carloites were taking advantage of the morning calm to play their systems. Hugh stood by the table where the majority of the system-players were. They were mostly ageing men, neatly dressed, bespectacled, business-like. The records in their tiny note-books were scrupulously kept from day to day. They played but seldom, and then generally with flat stakes. At the end of the season their books showed probably only modest gains. The little old lady who took down the numbers for the Monte Carlo Gazette worked at this table. Every day, year after year, she sat there, dressed in rusty black, looking rather sour. She made quite a lot of money by giving up her place for a small consideration to any who would pay for it.
Next to Hugh stood a very shabby old man. His trousers were baggy and frayed, his braid-trimmed coat of a pattern of a bygone day. He had a weak chin, bulging eyes, a heavy grey moustache, and a curious air of faded gentility. He had been pointed out to Hugh as an Italian nobleman, the Count Viviano, who had gambled away all his estates and now lived on a small pension. The old man stood for a long time gazing at the table in a strangely absorbed manner. Hugh, who saw things with an artist’s eye, noticed that his hands had big veins and a glazed look. They trembled almost constantly and were the only sign of emotion in a figure otherwise calm.
Suddenly the old man began to fumble in the pocket of his waistcoat and drew forth a blue oblong placque representing a thousand francs. He waited till the ball had been spun, then reaching over unsteadily, placed it on the first dozen. He tried to look unconcerned. He lost. Again the ball was spun and again Hugh saw him fumble, draw out another pale blue placque, and place it tremblingly on the same dozen as before. Again he lost. The next time he put a blue placque on both the first and second dozen. Alas! the third dozen came. He seemed in doubt whether to stay or go away. His agitation was pitiable. Again the ball was spun. Many looked at him to see what he would do. Just at the last moment, he drew from another pocket two more blue placques, and put one on the first dozen, the other on the third. Was ever such infernal luck! The second dozen won.
Curious and commiserating glances were cast at him.
The old count looked dazed. With shaking hands he took from the inside of his coat a shabby pocket-book and drew from it all the money it contained, a hundred franc note and a few small ones. He threw them on the first dozen. Again he lost. He was broke.
And as he stood there like a man in a dream, as if to mock him, the first dozen came again and again. Six times it repeated, and each time the man seemed to grow older, more crushed, more hopelessly stricken. He continued to look at the table as if fascinated; then, with the saddest face Hugh had ever seen, he slowly left the room.
Another figure now attracted the attention of the onlookers. A tall man was plastering the table with louis and Hugh recognized Mr. Fetterstein. He looked the typical captain of industry, solid, powerful, dominating. His face, slightly Jewish in type, was bold, and massive. His eyes changed from a twinkle of amusement to a look of profound concentration. There was something unshakable about him. He played imperturbably. When he lost, he laughed; when he gained, he seemed indifferent. At present he was winning. He had covered the number fourteen and all its combinations. Fourteen came. He repeated, again putting the maximum on fourteen. There was a murmur. Fourteen again. Once more he put the maximum on fourteen. The croupier who spun the ball looked nervous and worried. The Chef looked at him with a frown, as if to say, “There are thirty-five other numbers. As you value your promotion avoid the fourteen.” Again the man spun. A great shout went up.... Fourteen.
As he was paid with the usual impressive deliberation, Mr. Fetterstein folded up the wad of mille notes he had gained and put them away. He had won over thirty thousand francs,—but what was that to him, a millionaire? He went on playing, but the croupier who had been throwing was changed.
Hugh saw many people whom he knew, among them the Calderbrook family. The ladies were playing a lively game and, even this early in the morning, looked rather excited. On his way out, he passed the forlorn Emslie girl in the atrium, waiting for her mother, and in the vestibule, he encountered Mr. Gimp rolling a cigarette. The little man nodded curtly. His puckered pink face and his snowy white hair gave the impression of frostiness.
When Hugh reached home he said to Margot:
“You know, I was so interested watching every one I forgot to play. Well, this afternoon....”
In the afternoon the trains and yellow busses from Nice had disgorged their tourist hordes and turned the Casino into a welter of humid humanity. There were cheap-trippers taking a flutter, skimmers from the slums of Nice, sight-seers from every land under the sun, flaunting femmes de luxe, evil faces of the underworld,—the whole mob of strange invaders which a Monte Carloite finds so little to his liking. As fourteen tables were running, Hugh soon found an opportunity to try his system. He made three wins in the course of two hours. In neither case had he to fall back on his progression. He was elated and having finished for the day, amused himself by making sketches of the crowd.
By and by he wandered to the first trente-et-quarante table where a big game was going on. An American millionairess was playing as high as the limit allowed. She had before her a heap of pink placques, like cakes of soap, representing five thousand francs each; she tossed them around as carelessly as if they had no value. At one end of the table, Hugh noticed a tall distinguished-looking Englishman with an eye-glass; at the other, the Twitcher.
Hugh was admiring the superb insouciance of the American woman, who had lost twenty-five thousand francs in five minutes when he suddenly saw the Twitcher throw a bundle of mille notes on the red. There were evidently twelve of them, a maximum. By Jove! the Twitcher certainly was going it! Hugh watched with breathless interest. At the same time he saw the Englishman throw a similar sum on the black. The table was covered with big notes and placques. Every one awaited the turn of the cards with breathless interest.
“Couleur perd.”
The Twitcher had lost his twelve thousand francs. His face grew very pale. Then he reached forward. Just as the croupier was about to rake in his wad of bills he grabbed them up again, and crammed them into his pocket.
“I made a mistake,” he announced calmly. “I meant to play on black.”
“But Monsieur has lost....”
“I don’t care. I’ve got my money back. If you want to get it, you will have to take it from me. But I warn you I will make a desperate fight for it. It is all I have in the world. If I lose it, I am ruined. I will then kill myself. All I have, I have lost in this cursed den of thieves. You won’t get this without a struggle. And again, I warn you, I am armed.”
The crowd fell back, seemingly admiring his daring. Two lackeys in blue and gold advanced threateningly, but the Twitcher put his hand to his hip pocket in a significant fashion.
“Look out,” he said quietly. “I am going away. If any one lays a hand on me I will defend myself.”
Then with a leisurely gait and air of triumph he walked out of the Casino.
The whole thing was over in a moment. The inspectors came crowding round. The floor director, a bandy-legged, pot-bellied man with a stubby grey beard, hurried up; he was joined by another man with goggle eyes and a face like a mulatto. They talked, gesticulated, shrugged their shoulders. There was nothing to be done. A fracas on the floor of the Casino, that was inconceivable! Legally they could not claim the money. It was a gambling debt. Let it go!
So the storm subsided. The croupiers recovered from their stupefaction. They raked in the other winnings and paid the winners. Among the latter was the tall Englishman who had played on black. He did not seem to understand French. He kept saying: “Mo-ah! Mo-ah!” and point to his stake. They paid him one by one twelve crisp bills of one thousand francs each. He deliberately folded up the notes and went away.
That evening Hugh returned from a walk by way of Beausoleil. Outside of a café of the lower sort, he saw two men smoking. In spite of the darkness, he recognized the Twitcher and the tall Englishman. Hugh was so curious, that he sat down and ordered something to drink. He had not waited long when two men approached from the other direction. They were Bob Bender and the detective Krantz. Bob stepped before the drinking couple.
“Well, you brought it off,” he said in a not unfriendly way.
The tall Englishman laughed. “Yes, damn you, we got twelve thousand out of you.”
Krantz stepped forward. “Let me congratulate you, gentlemen. It is not every one gets ahead of us so easily. But we do not forget. I would strongly advise you to go away immediately.” Again the Englishman laughed.
“Bah! What do we care for you now? We have crossed the frontier. We are on French soil. We snap our fingers at your little tin-pot Principality.”
Krantz smiled pleasantly. He spoke in his silky voice, rubbing his hands together. Again Hugh noticed that the little finger of the right was missing.
“We know all about you,” he purred. “We have your record in France, England, America. We don’t want you here. You had better get out.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Refuse! Well....” Krantz rubbed his hands still harder and continued in his cheerful, chirping way, “Listen....” With his lips he blew a shrill, peculiar whistle. From the shadow across the road half a dozen dark shapes detached themselves.
“After all,” said Krantz, “the frontier is very near, the other side of the street, to be precise. It would be easy to take you over there by force. Once we have you, ... there’s no saying what might happen.”
The Englishman made a grimace. He seemed to reflect. Finally he banged his hand on the table.
“You go to hell,” he said.
Krantz blandly said good-night, and taking Bob Bender by the arm went quietly away. The mysterious shadows across the street melted again into the deeper shadow. But the Twitcher and the Englishman did not laugh any more. Presently the Englishman rose.
“I expect he’s right. We’d better go.”
Hugh went thoughtfully homeward.
“Well, that’s one system,” he said to himself, “that will take some beating.”
In the weeks that followed he had no difficulty in making his three louis a day, and in no case did he need to go beyond the fourth term of his progression. It was sometimes difficult to find the combination necessary for his coup; but once he found it, he played with an almost mechanical assurance and considered the louis of gain as good as in his pocket. He had earned it.
His favourite among the rooms was the “Hall of the Three Graces.” It was brilliant with many mirrors, and the chandeliers were like cascades of light. The air was better too. At the end table, sitting directly under the Three Graces, Mr. MacTaggart played his system. His grave air of a church elder seemed to be a standing reproach to what he called, “Them shameless hussies above ma heid.”
In the pauses between play, Hugh became familiar with the strange characters of the place. He knew them by their nicknames, and made sketches of them in his note-book. He never wearied of watching these détraqués of the game. He would sit for hours on one of the couches of padded leather, forgetting to play in his absorbed interest.
Often after he had gained his “day,” he would escape from the fetid air of the Rooms, from the sordid eyes in the mean faces, from the monotony of excitement, and seek a quiet corner of the Café de Paris. There he would sit and smoke, pervaded by a sense of utter content: his strenuous moment over. The Casino was paying for his tea, his cakes. The Casino was his banker, his provider, a charitable institution erected for his benefit. He looked at it, so peaceful in the afternoon sunlight. No hint of the scrabbling mob behind its biscuit-coloured walls.
Perhaps after all it was not so black as they painted it. Perhaps it did not do all the harm they claimed. People amused themselves, lost money they could afford to lose, went away satisfied. No, it was a very charming institution indeed. It was very good to him. It would give him all the money he wanted. He was drunk with success. He loved the place.
Then suddenly ... woof! his system went all to pieces.