1.
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.