CHAPTER FOUR
SHIFTS AND STRESSES
IN his irritation and perplexity, he went for a long walk by the shore.
“Confound the girl!” he thought. “What right has she to be so proud! Pride is for those who can afford it. There she was, sick, desperate, without one sou. I saved her from goodness knows what. And now, behold! When she ought to be humble, she throws up her head, turns independent, refuses my further help....”
With his stick he switched savagely at a clump of geraniums that stained a villa wall.
“Confounded fool that I was ever to have anything to do with her. These sudden quixotic impulses! They always lead to trouble. Damn! It was none of my business. Who could have blamed me if I had let her go her own way? And yet ... that would have worried me enormously. Her own way! What would it have been? I’d hate to think of any harm coming to her. No, I feel I am bound to protect her....”
He sat down and stared at the sea. He watched the same wave washing the same rock it had washed for centuries. Its monotonous persistency soothed his spirit.
“After all, she’s a jolly, good little sort. She’s made me feel a fool, though. She knew all along I was only gambling for her sake. She might have let me know she wouldn’t take the money. Maybe the whole idea was silly, sentimental.... No, it wasn’t. It was a good sporting proposition. Any other chap would have done it. Besides, it amused me. I got all the reward I wanted in the fun of winning. I made gambling a virtue instead of a vice. I played the knight-errant fighting for the fair lady with chips for a weapon and a roulette table for the field of battle.”
He felt better. He rose and began to flip flat stones over the water.
“She’s got to take the money. It’s hers. I don’t want it. Why won’t she take it? If she had been a princess instead of a poor working girl I could have understood. I don’t mind if she regards it as a loan. There’s no harm in that. An honest loan. Haven’t I been decent and honourable? Haven’t I treated her with every respect? Haven’t I been like a brother to her? Why can’t she accept my aid? Ridiculous, I call it. Girls are funny. Hanged if a chap can understand them....” Having had enough of stone flipping, he lit a cigarette and resumed his seat on the rock.
“Well, what’s to be done? The present state of affairs can’t go on forever. I rather wish it could, though—it’s been so nice having her there. She’s made the place so homey, looked after me so well. Don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. But there! It would be dangerous to go further. We have each our own way to make in the world, and our ways don’t lie together. If she won’t take the money I must do something else to help her. I have to go on helping her. Poor kid! She’s had a devil of a time up to now. I’m sorry if I have hurt her feelings.... I’ll go home and make it up.”
But instead of going home he found himself drawn irresistibly to that great “centre of depravity” (as Mr. Gimp called it), the Casino. He was leaning moodily against one of the columns of the atrium when the doors leading to the Opera House belched forth a weird crowd of Monegasques.
The opera is one of Monte Carlo’s delusions, for though it is widely advertised as one of the attractions of the place, a large proportion of the seats are given away to the natives, those descendants of Sæacen pirates who now plunder the visitor by modern methods. It is as if the company that exploits the Principality, having planted the Casino in their midst and forbidden them to enter the gambling rooms, was trying to make up to them in other ways. The same seats are filled night after night by swarthy folk, barbarously bedecked in flaunting finery. The laundress or lodging-house keeper of the Condamine smirks across the stalls at the butcher or the baker of the upper town, who, in turn, bows deeply to the bureaucrat who lives on the Rock, and is wondering if his dress shirt will last the season without another washing.
As Hugh watched the crowd he heard a voice suddenly address him:
“You’re not going into that monkey-show, are you?”
Looking round he saw Mrs. Belmire seated near him, holding an unlighted cigarette. She wore a gorgeous gown of egg-yolk yellow and pea-pod green. Under a modified Gainsborough hat, her mahogany-tinted hair rippled over her shell-pink ears.
“Give me a light, please! I’m dying for a smoke. Just been in the Rooms and lost fifty louis. Isn’t it silly of me? I’ve seen you playing quite a lot lately. Have you been lucky?”
Hugh was discreet. “No, not very. I play a small game. Just for chicken-feed.”
“Well, as long as you don’t lose, you’re lucky enough. I say, you can take me for tea to the Café de Paris, if you like.”
Hugh was flattered. They found a place in the restaurant from which they could watch the dancing. Mrs. Belmire looked rather stunning, and he was proud of being her escort. They listened to the confident music, ate chocolate cake and drank insipid tea.
“I bought two new hats to-day,” said Mrs. Belmire. “They cost a lot of money. I’m sure when I get them home I’ll hate them. I always like to have a pal with me, when I chose a new hat. I wish you’d been with me to help me choose.”
Hugh expressed a polite regret, with an uneasy feeling that his privilege in such an event might not be confined to choosing. Mrs. Belmire went on to talk about herself with an engaging frankness and almost childlike egoism. She elaborately displayed the confidence that is supposed to engender confidence; but Hugh was cautious.
“I suppose you’re going to the automobile show to-morrow,” she said. “You’re crazy about cars, aren’t you? I am. When my husband was alive, I used to drive our car myself. I drive a good deal here. My men friends are very nice to me, and take me for such jolly spins. You must take me some afternoon. By the way, where do you hang out now?”
“I’m living in the Condamine,” said Hugh vaguely.
“Are you? You’re lucky. I have had to give up my apartment. Lost so much playing at the club that I had to draw in my horns. I’m now staying at an Italian pension on the sea front,—Pizzicato’s. It’s very nice. The cooking’s Italian. To-day we had eels for lunch; I didn’t know they were eels till I had finished, or else I don’t believe I should have enjoyed them so much. You must lunch with me some day. I had General Jenkinson yesterday. You don’t know him, do you?”
“No, I don’t think I do,” said Hugh with a doubtful inflection.
“Delightful man. Oh, I say, my friend who looks so like you, Paul Vulning, is on his way here. You’ll probably meet him.”
All the time she talked—and it was principally of herself—Hugh could see that she was trying to find out more about him. For his part it pleased him to baffle her. Her manner was breezy, her voice ringing; he liked her, and judging by the smiling regard in her nut-brown eyes she liked him. It was nearly seven o’clock when she said: “There now, you’ve been awfully decent to me. Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind driving me to my hotel.”
Hugh called a voiture and accompanied her to the Pension Pizzicato. At the door she held his hand.
“I say, if you aren’t very comfortable where you’re staying, why not come here? I wish you would. There’s such a nice room next mine, and not too dear. Do say you’ll take it.”
Hugh hesitated. “I’ll think over it.”
“Yes, do. And I say,—won’t you lunch with me to-morrow?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got a friend coming to see me.”
“Bring your friend, too. Tell him you know a very jolly Englishwoman you would like him to meet.”
“I’ll see. I’ll ask my friend.”
She shook his hand warmly. So as not to look cheap he took the voiture back. It cost him twenty francs, which with the thirty francs for tea made fifty.
“A charming woman,” he thought, “but expensive,—damned expensive. I mustn’t cultivate her.”
He had dinner at Quinto’s Restaurant. He knew that Margot would be waiting for him at home, but his meeting with Mrs. Belmire had made him a little arrogant. He resolved to give the girl a lesson.
“Let her worry,” he said to himself; “it will do her good.”
After dinner he had intended to take a walk, but the Casino drew him like a magnet. Good old Casino! So friendly, so inviting, so generous. Down the long, pansy-patterned sward of the garden, between the proud palms he could see its portico, goldenly aglow. The big yellow hotel-bus from Cap D’Ail dashed up to the door, small figures in evening dress got out and mounted the seven carpeted steps. He was conscious suddenly that he, too, wanted to play. Yes, more than anything in the world he wanted to gamble.
More brilliant than ever seemed the “Hall of Light.” Nearly all the men were in evening dress. Perhaps it was the influence of Mrs. Belmire, but for the first time Hugh felt out of place in his serge suit.
“I must get a dinner jacket,” he thought, “and all that goes with it.” Then came a second thought: “Why not make the bank buy me one? If I can win a thousand francs! By Gad! I’ll try it.”
He had his capital, two thousand francs, in his pocket. He felt strangely elated. Perhaps it was the flush of his recent success, perhaps the flask of Chianti he had taken with his dinner. He changed a note of five hundred francs into the red counters that represent louis, and began to play a game between two tables. He bet that one table would not repeat the colour that had just come up on the other. When he lost he made a progression. It was lively and exciting, and after playing an hour he found his twenty-five louis had increased by ten.
Two hundred francs for his dress suit in sixty minutes,—that wasn’t bad. Now with his winnings he could afford to be a little reckless; so as the impair at one table had come up seven times running, he played pair with a hundred francs,—and lost. Cheerfully he put another hundred on pair for the next spin: he lost. Too bad! All his winnings gone. He felt nettled. He would get them back quickly enough. He would go on backing pair for the break in the run. He put on a hundred: impair. He doubled: again impair. He martingaled to four hundred: alas! still impair.
His feeling of resentment had now given way to one of alarm. He had lost seven hundred. Then just as the ball was thrown, moved by a sudden desperate impulse, he tossed the rest of his capital, thirteen hundred francs, on the table. There ... if he won, he would gain six hundred francs; if he lost, he would have—the emotion. He felt his heart beating thickly. He saw a woman close by turn and look at him curiously. He contrived a careless smile. Then, inexorable as fate, he heard the colourless voice of the croupier: Thirteen. Impair again; he had lost.
He stood looking stupidly at his little pile of money, his no longer. As if to torment him the croupier raked it in with what seemed an unnecessary show of indifference. It had happened all so quickly. He was stunned, sick. He looked round, but there was no Mr. Gimp to save him this time. He felt at that moment he would have traded his soul for money to go on. A run of fourteen on impair,—it was incredible.
The woman who had glanced at him was a little old Jewess known as the “Swallow.” She was dressed in rusty fragments of black crepe, held together by a host of safety pins. She had a bit of pale blue silk wound in a weird fashion about her throat, and another bit of the same in her musty black bonnet. On her hands she had black lace mittens over rusty black gloves, from the fingers of which her nails emerged. Her face, covered with a white veil and a thick coating of bluish-white powder, was precisely like the waxen face of a corpse.
As his stake was swept away, Hugh saw this ghoulish creature begin to play on the pair and win time after time. She was taking advantage of his bad luck. Pair came six times running. He went into the refreshment room and ordered a brandy and soda.
While he was drinking it, the old Jewess waddled in. The black tail of her dress, which gave her her name, wiggled after her. She ordered coffee, then fumbling in a mildewed looking bag, took from it the black stump of a cigar and lit it carefully. She sat puffing her cigar, and watching Hugh, the black eyes in her corpse-like face snapping with pure malice. He gulped down the rest of his brandy and went out quickly. He hated the place, loathed it.
As he descended the long, sloping road to the Condamine, the lights seemed to glitter in cruel mockery. The harbour lamps turned to green and red serpents wriggling on the varnished blackness of the water; the lamps of the quay thrust downward silver octopus-arms. Everything was reptilian, abhorrent. He was ruined.
Softly he crept up to the familiar room. The lamp was turned low and a simple supper set for him. In every corner he could see some evidence of Margot’s neatness and care. She was sleeping; he heard her steady breathing from behind the curtain. For the first time he pulled it aside a little, and peered in. Her hair was a bright disorder on the pillow. She had been crying a good deal for her eyes were red and swollen. He would have liked to waken her, to beg her forgiveness. As he turned away he saw on the table where he had left it, the envelope containing the two thousand francs.
The sight hardened him. She was still too proud to take it. He, too, could be proud. If it came to a contest of wills, he would prove himself the stronger. He sat down, sullen, bitter, brooding. Then temptation came to him. He looked at the money lying in the envelope. It was hers, absolutely hers but ... why not borrow it, play with it, win back what he had lost? He felt sure he could win this time,—sure.
Bah! what a demoralizing business gambling was! Here he was throwing all his pride to the winds, wanting to sneak away with this money that was to establish her in business, to risk it on the tables. How ashamed he would be if she knew! But she need not know. He could return it in an hour’s time. After all, in a sense, was it not his? Had he not a right to borrow it? He took it up, then laid it down again.
“No, damn it! It’s not playing the game.”
Then after another spell of morose musing, his hand went out to it once more.
“Well, there’s no use leaving it there. I might as well put it in my pocket.”
He did so, and then continued to sit moodily staring at the lamp. He began to fidget restlessly. Finally he said:
“I don’t feel a bit sleepy. I’ll just go back to the Casino and watch awhile.”
Already, having money in his pocket, he began to feel better. As he climbed the long hill, he knew quite well what he was going to do. Even as he entered the “Hall of Light” he was thinking:
“The pair played me a scurvy trick to-night. It owes me a good turn now.”
Going to the same table he laid a thousand francs on pair. He lost.... He was becoming callous. These flimsy bits of paper no longer represented real money. He threw the second of them on pair. If he lost, what matter! He would then be finished, purged clean, cured of gambling forever. A good job too. Let him lose.... He won. He saw them lay a thousand franc counter beside his bill. He looked at the two contemptuously. With a nod to the croupier he left them there for the next spin. He even strolled away a little and watched the play at the neighbouring table. A curious and thrilling sensation this,—to know that your fate is being decided behind your back. Looking round, as if casually, he saw that the ball had dropped and that they were not raking in his money. Then he saw them add to it two other counters of a thousand each. With a hand that trembled a little he took up four thousand francs and went home.
The lights were joyous again, the place adorable. So he thought, as he hurried to their quiet room. Softly he replaced the two thousand francs in the envelope. He listened again to her breathing. Once more he peeped through the curtain. Her face was like that of a tired, fevered child. He felt a curious surge of affection for her, a warmth that was nigh to tenderness. With a happy sense of her nearness, he sought his own bed and immediately fell asleep.
On rising next morning, he found she had set the table for breakfast, but the envelope was gone.
“I’m going away,” she told him. “I’ll do anything you ask. I don’t want to be a bother to you.”
“Don’t think I want to be rid of you. Still you must see that, all things considered, it will really be for the best.”
She was pale, but seemed cheerful and resigned. All day she went about making her preparations for departure.
“I’ll take the train for Paris to-morrow,” she announced.
He was unprepared for the suddenness of her going.
“Oh, not to-morrow,” he said; “wait till the day after. We’ll spend to-morrow together, go picnicking.”
She agreed and they took the train next morning to La Turbie. They made a fire among the rocks and ate a cold paté, cheese and fruit, as happy as two children. Hugh went to get some water to make tea. When he returned, he found the girl cowering at the foot of a big rock. She had slipped and fallen, while gathering flowers. The distance was about ten feet. She was all right, she assured him, excepting her foot which hurt her badly. She could not walk, so he had to lift her and carry her to the road. He was greatly distressed. At the village he got a voiture and they returned slowly to Monte Carlo.
He summoned a doctor who said that she had sprained her ankle badly and must rest for a week or two without putting her foot to the ground.
“That’s very awkward,” she told the doctor. “I intended going to Paris to-morrow.”
“Impossible, madame,” he said; Hugh also echoed the word, “Impossible.” She submitted to this decision with a resignation that was almost too cheerful. Hugh was sympathetic gentleness itself. He did the marketing with the joyousness of a boy, and even attempted to cook under her direction. Whenever he found himself free, he hastened to the Casino to gamble; roulette was rapidly becoming an obsession with him.
Propped with pillows in the big wicker arm-chair he had bought her, Margot would sit and watch him. How his teeth gleamed when he laughed. She loved the look of him, tall, slim, with his fair hair brushed smoothly back, his fine sensitive face, his eloquent dark eyes. He made a graceful picture even when swathed in a white apron and frying eggs.
“He is so good, so kind, so patient,” she sighed. “My conscience hurts me. Oh, if he only knew I slipped from that rock on purpose.”