"They used to say that Gerald Keppel hadn't a shilling beyond what the old man allowed him monthly—a most niggardly allowance, I've heard."
"That's quite possible, my dear Carmela," she answered. "But one's position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire. Old Benjamin is eccentric. I've met the old buffer several times. He's addicted to my pet abomination in a man—paper collars."
"Then you'll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?" I laughed.
"Yes. I'm self-sacrificing, am I not?"
She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel, and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of Delight which somebody has suggested might well be known as the Sign of the Seven Sins.
Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type—pretty, with soft, wavy, chestnut hair and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine; yet beneath her corsets, as I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change and flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them. Neither, indeed, could I, for by living with her ever since my convent-days I had copied her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the hotel, we went over with the usual crowd to Monte Carlo by the two o'clock "yellow" express.
Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera—that stretch of azure sky, azure sea, rugged coast; purple hills clad with olives and pines; rose, heliotrope, and geranium running riot in the gardens of the white villas, with their marble terraces.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling salle de jeu at Monte Carlo, where the croupiers were crying in strident tones, "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!" and uttering in warning voice, "Rien ne va plus!" I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those grabbing crowds of smartly-dressed people grouped around the tables? Were they actually civilised human beings—beings who had loved, suffered and lived, as I had loved, suffered and lived?
How beautiful it was outside in that gay little place, with the Red Hungarian Band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and half the grand monde of Europe lounging about and chattering! How enchanting was the grim Dog's Head as a fitting background in dark purple against the winter sunset, the brown Grimaldi rock rising sheer from the sea to the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right, Villefranche and San Juan dark upon the horizon,—the serrated Esterels dark and mysterious afar; while to the left, Bordighera was sparkling white in the sunshine. And beyond there was Italy—my own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day was tempered by the thick curtains, and the clink of gold mingled with the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.