EPILOGUE
In the winter of 19— I was at Monte Carlo for three weeks, taking a short holiday alone, and also looking out for a villa at Roquebrune or Mentone for my wife, who was to come out with the baby as soon as the house had been secured.
Now and again I went into the "Rooms" and staked a louis or two upon an even chance or a transversale at roulette; but, speaking generally, the Casino bored me. The cosmopolitan crowd of smart people—like champagne corks floating on a cesspool—the professional gamblers, with their veil of decorous indifference concealing a fierce greed for money which they have not earned—a sprinkling of wood-ash over a glowing fire—presented little interest, and I much preferred long walks and drives in the earthly paradise of Les Alpes Maritimes.
I stayed at the Métropole Hotel, making it the base of my excursions, and one evening, after dinner, I paid one of my rare visits to the Casino. I wandered about the gilded, stuffy saloons, with their illuminations of oil-lamps—so that no enterprising gentleman may cut the electric wires and make off with the money on the tables!—the low voices and almost sanctimonious manner of the players, the over-dressed demi-mondaines who glide about with their hard, evil eyes. The place was very full. All the chairs round the roulette tables were occupied, and people were standing behind the chairs as well. As I am tall, I was able to reach over and place my stakes, and I did so several times. When I had lost four louis with monotonous regularity, I decided that it was not worth while, and thought I would go and smoke, for, contrary to the usual pictures in the magazines, smoking is not allowed in the roulette or trente-et-quarante rooms.
So I went out into the Atrium, the great pillared entrance hall, which looks like an important provincial corn exchange, and lit a cigarette. The place was fairly full of people, walking up and down, or reading the latest telegrams, which are fixed up upon a green-baize screen, and I was watching them idly when, coming round the corner from the cloak-room, I saw—Danjuro!
My heart gave a sudden leap, the sight of him was so utterly unexpected and recalled so much. To tell the truth, he seemed to belong to a long past and forgotten dream, for Connie and I, by mutual consent, hardly ever spoke of the days of the pirates.
Danjuro was about fifteen yards away. I saw his face distinctly, and was certain that I was not mistaken. Then he looked up, and I could swear that he saw and recognized me.
Be that as it may, he turned and slipped round the corner like a weasel, and when I got there he had vanished. I made a search, of course, though I knew how futile it would be if he wished to avoid me, and the result was as I expected. There wasn't a trace of him anywhere, and none of the attendants or door-keepers had seen a Japanese gentleman anywhere.
I went for a walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and then returned to the hotel and sought my bed. For a long time I could not sleep. The sight of Danjuro had made me restless. A legion of memories trooped through the brain, and curiosity marshalled the procession. What was that enigmatic and sinister being doing here? Was he still upon his ruthless quest, moving through the panorama of European life like some wandering Jew of vengeance? Nothing had ever been heard of Vargus again. For my part, I shared the opinion of the police bureaux of the Continent, that the soft-voiced and malignant scoundrel was dead.
It was pathetic to think of Danjuro prowling through life to avenge his patron, wasting his magnificent powers upon a hopeless quest. Pathetic, yes—so ran my thoughts—but one can't think of Danjuro as an ordinary human being. He was simply a single idea, clothed in flesh, a marvellous machine designed for one operation only, a specialist so perfect that he became a monomaniac.