The gamblers

by William Le Queux

She laughed again.

"And you will go on the Continent with me?" she asked. "You will go to commence life afresh. What a funny thing life is, isn't it?"

I responded in the affirmative. Truth to tell, I was very glad of that opportunity to escape from the eternal shopping in the High Street and the round of Kensington life, which daily reminded me of the man whom I had loved. Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to avoid all further mention of the grief that was wearing out my heart.

At the outset of our pilgrimage to the South of Europe we went to Paris. In the gay city two women with money and without encumbrances can have a really good time. We stayed at the "Chatham," a hotel much resorted to by our compatriots, and met there quite a lot of people we knew, including several rather nice men whom we had known in London, and who appeared to consider it their duty to show us the sights, many of which we had seen before.

Need I describe them? I think not. Those who read these lines probably know them all, from that sorry exhibition of terpsichorean art in the elephant at the Red Windmill down to the so-called cabarets artistiques of the Montmartre, "Heaven," "Hell," and the other places.

Each evening we dined at six, and went forth pleasure-seeking, sometimes unattended, and at others with our friends. We were catholic in our tastes. We saw La Bohême at the Opera, and attended a ball at the Bullier; we strolled along the carpeted promenade of Aspasia at the Folies Bergères, and laughed at the quadrilles at the Casino, and at that resort of the little work-girls, the Moulin la Galette; we listened to the cadence of Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful voice, and to the patter of the revue at La Scala; we watched the dancing of La Belle Otero and the statuesque poses of Degaby. Truly, we had our fill of variety theatres.

In common, too, with the foreigner who goes to "see life" in Paris, we did the round of the restaurants—from supper at the Cafê de Paris, or the Cafê Américain, to the humble two-franc dinner at Léon's in the Rue St. Honoré, or the one-franc-fifty lunch at Gazal's in the Place du Théâtre Français. We had our meal, too, one evening at that restaurant which is seldom even mentioned in respectable circles, the "Rat Mort," in the Place Pigalle. Yes, with money one is seldom triste in Paris, and I was really sorry when, in the last week of the year, after Felicita had packed our trunks, we set out for the Riviera.

Travelling on those abominable gridirons which on the Continent are called railways, is absolutely disgusting after our own English lines, with their dining-cars and other comforts. Of all the railways that intersect the Continent, the P.L.M., which has a monopoly to the Mediterranean, is the most inconvenient, disobliging, and completely abominable. To obtain the smallest comfort on the eighteen-hour journey between Paris and Nice, an addition of three pounds is charged upon the first-class fare, and that for a single night in a third-rate sleeping-car! Ulrica said it was termed the train de luxe only because it looks swagger to travel by it. We occupied a couple of berths in it, but agreed that the additional three pounds were ill-spent indeed, for the badly-cooked food was absurdly dear.

Moreover, as the water for toilet purposes gave out before reaching Lyons, we had to buy bottles of mineral water, and perform our ablutions in a mixture of Vichy Celestins and eau-de-cologne. It was remarked by an old and apparently experienced traveller that the water in the wagons lits is purposely scanty in order to increase the takings of the restaurant cars; and I certainly believed him.

For a woman young in years I have had considerable experience of European railways, from the crawling Midi of France to the lightning Nord; but for dirt and dearness, commend me to the great highway to the Riviera. To take a small trunk from Paris to Nice costs more than the fare of one's maid; while to those who do not pay for the train of luxury, but travel in the ordinary padded horse-boxes, the journey means a couple of days of suffocation and semi-starvation.