THE
POISONED PARADISE

A ROMANCE OF MONTE CARLO

BY
ROBERT W. SERVICE
AUTHOR OF “THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT,” “RHYMES OF
A ROLLING STONE,” “THE PRETENDER,” ETC.

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1922

Copyright, 1922,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
First Printing, Oct., 1922
Second Printing, Nov., 1922
Third Printing, Jan., 1923
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
The Quinn & Roden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY

CONTENTS

THE
POISONED PARADISE

PROLOGUE

The boy was sitting in a corner of the shabby room. The mother watched him from her pillow.

“What are you doing, dear?”

“Drawing, Mother Lovely.”

“Strange! Always drawing. Did I ever tell you that your father was an artist?”

The boy looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes were like her own, dark and velvety; but his sunny hair contrasted with her black braids.

“No, Mother Lovely. Had I a father?”

“Yes, dearest. He died just before you were born. I came here hoping that his people, so rich, so proud, would be glad to see you. But, no, they cannot understand.... We’ll go home together, you and I, to my home.”

“Where is that, Mother?”

“Monaco, the great rock that rises from the sea, where my family has lived for generations. Listen, little son ... if I should not be able to go with you, you must go alone. You will find the house where lives my mother, a plain, quiet house with brown shutters near the Cathedral. In front four pepper-trees shield it from the sun, and through the pines one can see the blue glimmer of the sea....”

“Is it beautiful, my mother?”

“Always beautiful. The people sing from very joy. In the garden of the Prince, just in front of our house, there is a broken pillar covered with ivy. Beside it is a spring where flowers bloom even in summer heat. It was there we used to meet, your father and I.... Ah! I have never regretted it, never....”

Her girlish face was as sweet as a flower, but her eyes held memories too tragic for tears.

Then the door opened and a woman entered with a masterful air.

“I’m preparin’ yer potion, ma’am. The doctor said you was to take it at eight o’clock. Come on, sonny, it’s bedtime. Ma wants to get a good long night.”

The child looked imploringly at his mother. She shook her head.

“No, dearest, you must do what the lady tells you. Come, good-night.”

She held him in her arms, kissing him again and again. “You, too, will be an artist ... but you must be brave, my little son; for you have a hard, hard life before you.”

Then she let him go, but he turned at the door. “Good-night, Mother Lovely.”

“Good-night, darling one. Think of what I told you,—of home....”

She was alone now. Closing her eyes she saw a little U shaped harbour shielded from the sea. It was as delicate as a pastel, a placque of sapphire set in pearl. In the crystal air the red-roofed houses crowded close to it, the terraced town rose on tip-toe to peer at it. All was glitter and gleam and radiant beauty. Yet yonder in sombre contrast rose the Rock, monstrous, moody, mediæval.

Once more she climbed the long steep hill; she crossed the sunny square in front of the palace; she passed into the cool gloom of the narrow streets. Then at last she stood before the low brown house with its tiny porch and its four pepper-trees....

Home.... Home. Would she ever see it again?

Moaning, she turned her face to the wall.

. . . . . .

BOOK ONE
The Story of Margot

CHAPTER ONE
THE OUTCAST

1.

“THAT you, Margot?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“For God’s sake close the door. You don’t think I break my back gathering wood that you may warm the wide world.”

There was a scuffle of sabots anxiously retreating.

“Margot!”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’re not going away again, are you?”

“I....”

“Come here, little toad. I’ve something to say to you.”

Submissively from the shadow of the doorway slipped a girl. She had twin braids of pale gold hair, and between them like a wedge, her face showed waxen with cold.

“’Fraid I’ll eat you?” snapped the woman. “Come here, near to me. Brought home any money?”

“No, Mother.”

“But I told you to ask.”

“I did not dare. Madame will not pay in advance. The last time I asked her she almost sent me away.”

“Nom de Dieu! Couldn’t you give her some story? Your little sister’s sick. There’s no food in the house. Your poor mother’s.... Ugh! What a fool I have for a daughter. So all you’ve brought back’s an empty stomach. Oh, I could strike you, I could.”

She suited the gesture to the threat, and the girl arched her slender arms to stave off the blow. But the woman dropped her hands disgustedly.

“Bah! what’s the use. If I could only make you cry there’d be some relish in it. But no! I beat you till my arms ache and never a whimper. That’s your stubborn nature. You’ll do nothing to please me. Oh, you’re a stubborn little devil, still as a mouse, obstinate as a mule. There’s something in you, daughter, I can’t get at. But I will. I’ll thrash it out of you. You wait. Not to-night. I’m too tired to-night....”

From the tumbler at her elbow she took a gulp of cider and brandy, then turned broodingly to the fire. The sickly flames betrayed the wretchedness of the room, the gaunt rafters, the floor of beaten earth. On a deal table lay a clasp knife, and beside it a loaf of bread. The girl eyed the bread avidly. Then her hand, red and claw-cold, stole to the knife, while her gaze rested fearfully on her mother. But the woman no longer heeded.

“What a life!” she was muttering. “What a home! And to think I’d have been rolling in my auto, and crackling in silk and satin, if I hadn’t been a fool. That’s my weak point.... I always wanted to be respectable, to be married—all that sentimental rot. Well, I’ve made my bed and I’ve got to lie on it. But it’s hell....”

She stared dismally at her draggled skirts, her coarsely stockinged feet, her wooden shoes so warped and worn. Seeing her absorbed, the girl hacked off a piece of bread and fell to wolfing it. The woman went on, her face harsh and haggard in the light of the fire:

“There was the American. Mad about me, he was. If I’d played my cards right he’d have married me. What a time he gave me, Paris, Venice, Monte Carlo.... Oh, Monte Carlo! But he had to go back home at last. His wife! Told me to wait and he’d get a divorce. Gave me all the money he had. Nearly five hundred pounds. Believe me, I was pretty in them days.”

As if for confirmation, she stroked her hollow cheeks. Tears of self-pity welled in her weary eyes.

“Ah! if I’d known, I would have waited. But there was Pierre plaguing me to marry him. Told me he’d loved me since we’d worked together in that hotel in Brighton; me as bar-maid, him as head-waiter. Mighty nice he used to look too in his dress suit. He said he’d been left some money and wanted to go back to the little town where he was born and buy a pub. So we was married, once in England and once in France. God! I was particular in them days.”

She laughed bitterly, and took another gulp of the mixture in her glass. Her eyes went glassy. Her fingers clutched unseen things. She maundered on.

“Yes, I was happy there. It was all so new to me. Then we began to get ambitious. The landlord of the big hotel died suddenly. It was a great chance for Pierre, but he had not money enough to take it. There was where I came in. I gave him my five hundred pounds. Told him an aunt had left it to me. He believed me. We bought the hotel and everything seemed to go well. Yes, them were the happy days.”

A fit of coughing interrupted her. When it was over she took another drink.

“I don’t know how Pierre got to know about the American. He was away a month and when he came back he was changed. He explained nothing, but he treated me like dirt. It was that made me take to the drink.”

She was silent awhile. Then....

“He didn’t seem to care about the business any more and I was drinking too much to care; so we went from bad to worse. We lost the hotel and went back to the buvette. Then we lost that too, and he had to take a waiter’s place. By this time the drink was master of me. I tried to give it up but it was no use. When Cécile was born I thought I’d be able to stop, but I was worse than ever. If he’d only tried to help me! But no, he hated me; and I began to hate him too. We fought day and night, like cat and dog. Well, it’s a long, long story, and here’s the end.”

She threw a withered branch of gorse on the fire. It blazed up gold as its own May-day bloom. The girl had climbed on a bench by the high bed and was bending fondly over.

“Margot!” screamed the woman.

The girl started. In the sudden flare, her face was an ashen mask of fear.

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m just looking at Cécile, Mother.”

“Come away at once. Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to go near her? I know you with your sneaking ways. You want to steal her away from me. She’s the only one I’ve got left, and I want her to myself,—all, all. If ever you go near her, I’ll kill you. See!”

A fit of coughing choked her utterance. Again the girl stole to the door.

“Margot!”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Fetch the bottle of brandy from the cupboard.”

The woman poured herself a stiff glass and downed it in a gulp.

“Come here, you little imp; I want to look at you.”

She drew the shrinking girl to her. Her lips twitched with spite.

“His eyes, his mouth, his chin. The very image of him. And he says you’re not his daughter. Ah! that was the knife in me. Do you hear, girl? Your father says you’re not his daughter.”

She laughed harshly, scornfully.

“You’re so much his daughter that I hate you, hate you!”

The girl had begun to struggle, but the woman was holding her with spiteful strength.

“Let me tell you something. He came to-day and told me he was going away for ever. He tried to take Cécile, but I fought for her, fought like a wild cat to hold her. You understand?”

The girl winced in her savage grip.

“Hear that. You’ve no father. He disowns you. And let me tell you something more,—you’ve no mother.... I disown you, too. After to-night I never want to see you again. You’re the dead image of him and I hate him too much. Now go!”

She hurled the girl from her and took another gulp of the neat brandy. The glass dropped from her hand. She sagged forward.

Except for the crackle of the burning twigs all was quiet. The girl gathered a hurried armful of clothes. She was glad to go, but for Cécile!

She stole over to the bed where her sister lay sleeping. She saw a cluster of golden curls, a wan little face with lips parted and lashes that seemed to cast a shadow. Bending down, she kissed the white cheek. The heavy lashes stirred, the big blue eyes opened, the child’s silken arm stole around her neck.

“You’ve come home, Margot?”

“Yes, but I’m going away again.”

“Don’t go, Margot. Don’t leave me. I’m afraid of Mother. Stay with me. Stay with your little Cécile.”

“No, I can’t. Kiss me, dear.”

The child held her so tightly it was difficult to free herself. Then the mother turned. She shrieked in sudden fury, and the girl in her terror made a leap for the door. But the latch jammed; and, the while she was fumbling with it, the woman made a rush for her.

The girl screamed with fright. The woman, in her haste, stumbled, caught herself, and with a foul oath snatched the knife from the table....

That was Margot’s last memory of her mother,—a harridan hurling curses at her and threatening her with a naked knife....

Sobbing with terror, she stumbled over the stone sill of the doorway and gained the sanctuary of the night.

2.

The night had on her robe of carnival, and her spangled skirts made glorious the sky. The girl halted by the wayside, where a line of clipped oaks blotted themselves against the stars. She did not cry, for she had lost the habit of tears, but drew long sobbing breaths.

The night wore drearily on, the stars seemed to glitter in cruel unconcern. The girl dozed and dreamed a little....

She was a child of four, the happiest and best dressed in all the village. She had robes of lace, and silk ribbands, and shoes of satin. Her mother cared for her like a little princess, and her father carried her proudly in his arms. Every one said she was spoiled. She had more toys than all the other children put together. But the most precious of all was a doll as big as a real baby, a doll that opened and shut its eyes, and had jointed arms and legs. She had a dozen dresses for this doll, and spent hours and hours caring for it....

She was a girl of ten. She wore a long white robe and a veil over her head. Some said she looked like a fairy, some an angel. It was her first Communion, and of a score of girls she was the prettiest by far. She it was who headed the shining procession through the long grey street of the village. The way was strewn with lily leaves, and child-voices blended sweetly in the June sunshine....

That was her last memory of happiness. Her father suddenly changed. Where she had known only caresses, harsh words and bitter looks were now her portion. The home once so joyful, was the scene of sordid wrangling. She was allowed to go about shabby and dirty, and became nothing but a slipshod drudge.

Her father never struck her, but her mother beat her cruelly. It was a relief when she was apprenticed to the local dress-maker and spent her day away from the misery of home. But oh, the nights when she ate her slovenly supper and waited for the inevitable out-break! When it came and the storm raged at its height, her father would retreat with Cécile to the cottage of her grandmother and leave her to bear the brunt of her mother’s drunken spite. How often had she been thrashed, how often torn from her bed, and flung half-clad into the night! In the old barn there was a corner where she had many a time crouched and shivered until dawn. Ah, what bitter memories! Would any amount of happiness ever efface them?

So half brooding, half dreaming, the night passed away. She opened her eyes wide and found she had gained a ridge not far from a forest. She looked down a billowy slope of tree-tops to the misty level of the plain. It was a grim grey world; but even as she gazed, a silver wire seemed to be drawn along the horizon. The stillness was intense, a listening, waiting stillness; from the other side of the sky some god seemed to be pouring over the cloud-fleece a solution of light.

Then as she looked she saw that the sinister quality of the light had gone. The silver wire had broadened to a glint of pearl; slowly it glowed to a pink as delicate as that of sea-shells. The pink deepened to a rose, kindled and spread. Waves of colour rippled up the sky, brightening with every wave. Shade succeeded shade. Rich crimson battled with cerise and rose with coral pink. Then suddenly came a leap of gold, the gold of daffodils. It brimmed into a dazzling flood. It welled and glowed and spread; and before its radiant lucidity the orgy of colour melted away. Then into that indomitable light,—a primrose rim, a golden segment, the sun was launched in all its glory.

The sunshine and the song of birds gave her courage. The world began to glitter. Warbling notes came from the bushes, and dew-drops spangled the thread of gossamer. In this world, so fresh, so fair, the happenings of the night before seemed to her an evil dream.

The few peasants she passed gazed at her curiously. Over her shoulder was slung her bundle, and her pale, peaked face between its twin braids of bright hair had all the entreaty of a beaten dog.

As she trudged wearily on she came to a glade, flooded with sunshine and perfumed with pine. Bees droned in the wild thyme, from the fork of a tree a squirrel scolded, on a hollow oak nearby a wood-pecker drummed sonorously. And in the midst of this scene of peace an old man was painting.

He was not a nice old man. His skin was white, the dead white of an onion, and the girl noted that flies swarmed round and round him. They settled on his blouse and walked over his beard but he took no notice of them. He seemed to attract flies as carrion attracts them. He gave the girl a contemptuous look.

“Well, what d’ye think of my picture?”

“It’s very pretty, sir.”

“Pretty be damned. Never tell an artist his work’s pretty.”

The girl was turning away when his voice arrested her.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Why? Haven’t you got a home?”

“No, sir.”

He turned round and looked at her hard. He seemed to reflect.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to Paris?”

The girl started. Paris! It was the most beautiful, the most wonderful city in the world. It had been one of her dreams that some day she might visit it.

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“Then, why not?”

“I have no money.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I have no friends there.”

“You would make friends in time. Why not go?”

“Oh, no, sir. I should be afraid. Maybe, I could not find work.”

“Humph! Perhaps, I could help you to find work. Come here.”

Timidly she drew near. She did not like him, but she felt she must obey. The flies were on his shoulders in a grey cloud. He had a very small mouth, with lips that were shiny. He moistened these very often with his tongue. In his ears were wads of pink cotton wool. He put out a puffy, yellow hand and touched her. He tilted back her sharp chin. He held one of the thick braids of her shiny hair.

“Bah! you won’t be much of a model for the figure. But I might make something of your head. Wait till I finish my work, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

There was such an air of command in his tone that again she felt she must obey. So she sat down on her bundle and waited patiently. He worked without heeding her, until a little before noon, when he rose and gathered together his materials.

“Come now. I’ll go with you to the station.”

Doglike she followed at his heels. The village was about two miles away. He bought her some bread and chocolate and a bottle of cheap wine.

“You’re as hungry as a young wolf, eh! Well, you can eat on the train. Come quickly or you will miss it.”

She went with him to the station. There he gave her a third class ticket for Paris and a sealed letter.

“Go to the address on the envelope. Go direct. My housekeeper will make you comfortable.”

Then the train arrived and he looked at her with eyes that shone curiously.

“You will help Madame Mangepain with the housework till I come. After that we will see.”

As the train moved off she saw him standing on the platform, licking his lips and surrounded by a swarm of flies.

CHAPTER TWO
THE MAN ON WHOM FLIES SETTLED

TWO o’clock in the morning at the Gare du Montparnasse. The girl was dazed and weary. She sat on her bundle in the stale greyness of the station, waiting anxiously for the dawn. About six o’clock she ventured forth, and holding her precious envelope in her hand inquired her way at the corner of every street.

A morning of exquisite metal, vivid, spacious, resplendent. As she crossed the Seine by the Pont Royal, the sky was golden and against it gloomed the twin towers of Notre Dame. The palaces of the Louvre swam in lovely light and the Gardens of the Tuileries seemed washed in yellow wine. Up the long rise of the Champs-Elysées, the Arc de Triomphe was superbly radiant, its turquoise heart stillettoed by the glittering lunge of the Luxor Column.

The girl gazed with awestruck eyes. As she thought of the sunrise in the forest the violence of the change dulled her brain. The city amazed and appalled her; but, impelled by fear, she came at length to the heights of Montmartre. There before a gloomy house in the Rue Lepic she paused, her heart beating thickly.

She knocked at the heavy oak-door, timidly at first, then loudly. She had a sudden fear that there might be no one there. As she was wondering what she should do she heard slow, shuffling footsteps, and a withdrawal of bolts, then the door opened a little. An old woman regarded her angrily. She was bent almost double, and held her head sideways. Her face was hard and sour. She snarled:

“What are you making all this row for? Couldn’t you have the patience to wait till I got down?”

The girl presented her letter. The old woman regarded it suspiciously.

“Who gave you this?”

“The old man who paints in the forest.”

“Ah! Monsieur Frossard. Well, you can’t expect me to read it without my glasses. Wait there.”

She closed the door, leaving the girl on the step; but soon she came back, and her face was grimmer than ever.

“Another of ’em. Well, I suppose I must take you in. He’s quite the philanthropist, Monsieur Frossard. He! He!”

The old woman preceded her down a long corridor, her back bent and her feet splayed out. They mounted a broad flight of stairs, then a narrow one.

“There! that’s your room, and lucky you are to have it. I’ll warrant a pig-stye is more in your line. You are a poor bit of skin and bone anyway. Leave your bundle on the bed and come with me to the kitchen.”

The girl soon fell into the ways of the household. She rose at five and prepared the coffee. She scrubbed and rubbed, washed and swept. She did everything but the cooking and the marketing. The old woman seldom spoke to her, and forbade her to put a foot out-of-doors.

The house was a private one, with a large studio facing the north, and a small, weedy garden shut in by high walls. The girl was allowed to go into the garden, but its damp melancholy oppressed her. Some headless statues leaned against the mouldering wall. It was very quiet. She felt as if she were in a prison.

One Sunday morning Monsieur Frossard arrived. For days before they had been making preparations, dusting statuettes and bric-à-brac, sweeping in unwonted nooks and corners. The old woman sidled everywhere like a crab, with her neck twisted awry, her bent back and large splay feet in felt slippers. She kept Margot at work, constantly impressing on her the necessity of pleasing the Master. So much did she harp on this that the girl looked forward to the old man’s return almost with dread.

On his arrival he went to his room and retired into his great four-poster bed. The old woman attended to him, carrying him specially prepared dishes, and dusty bottles of wine.

That evening she said to the girl: “Margot, put on a clean apron and take this plate of peaches up to the Master.”

Tremblingly the girl obeyed. Monsieur Frossard was propped up in bed, a skull cap on his head, and a cigar in his mouth. Around him was the debris of his evening meal, the carcase of a lobster, some bones of frog-legs, and a half finished bottle of champagne. As she approached she was conscious of a strange odour of decay. The old man looked at her, licking his little slimy lips while a score of flies buzzed and settled around him. The pink cotton wool was still in his ears. She wondered if there was any connection between the cotton wool and the flies. An odd revulsion seized her, yet she continued to approach with the fruit.

“Tiens! it’s the little girl I found in the forest. What’s your name?”

“Margot, Sir.”

“Come here, Margot, close to me. Let me offer you a peach.”

The girl, standing with her head bent, refused.

“Ah! you are too timid. We must cure you of that.”

He put out one of his pudgy hands and took hold of a long bright strand of her hair. The girl raised her startled blue eyes. The hand on her shining hair made her think of a toad. She shuddered. The old man’s face changed; it became hard and cruel.

“Go away,” he said harshly. “I will see you to-morrow.”

Next morning Madame Mangepain said to her:

“The Master wants to see you in the studio.”

The girl went reluctantly. The studio had always awed her. It was so huge, so rich. There were costly rugs on the floor and lovely pictures on the wall. The paintings all bore the signature of Abel Frossard, and ranged from nudes to landscapes.

The painter, in his velvet cap and dressing-gown, was sitting before a fresh canvas. He turned heavily and beckoned her to enter. His manner was bland, even ingratiating.

“Well, Margot, you are commencing this morning your new career, that of a model.”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl meekly.

“You’d better say ‘Yes, Master.’”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now as a model, you may be a success or you may be a failure. I will do my best to make you a success, but it will largely depend on yourself. There’s many a woman to-day with her limousine and her appartement in the Champs-Elysées who began life as a model. On the other hand, if you are a failure there is only the street for you, the hospital, prison, death ... you understand.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Ah, good! By the way, why were you afraid of me last night?”

The girl did not answer. She was looking at a fly that was crawling on the pink cotton wool in his ear.

“You mustn’t be afraid. You’ll never make a success as a model if you are afraid. Now to work.”

He motioned her to a dais, on which stood a chair that seemed all curves.

“Sit there and loosen your hair.”

The girl obeyed. It fell in a sheen of gold around her. He handed her a brush.

“Brush it out so that it is like an aura.”

She did not understand, but brushed and brushed, with long, sweeping strokes. The old man had forgotten he was anything but a painter.

“Fine,” he said enthusiastically. “Now raise your head and look at the statuette above the book case. There! That’s good. Just hold the position. I will make a preliminary study to-day.”

The girl sat quite still, and the old man painted intently. She posed until luncheon, which she ate with Madame Mangepain in the kitchen, and at two o’clock returned to the studio and resumed the pose. At five o’clock the old man laid down his brush and rubbed his hands.

“There! I’ve finished. Come and see it.”

She looked at the beautiful bit of brush work. She could not believe that this ethereal girl-face with the eyes so thrillingly blue and the nimbus of bright gold hair was herself. The old man observed her awe with satisfaction.

“You like it, eh? Yes, it’s good. A bit idealized. Well, it’s nothing to what I will do before I finish. I’ll make Chabas look to his laurels yet. Ah! your hair! it’s what inspires me. Tadé Stycka has no better model. I’ll make your hair famous.”

Turning her to admire it the more, he parted it behind; then suddenly the girl felt his lips pressed to the back of her neck. She started as if a serpent had stung her and put her hand to the place. Again a shudder passed over her. For a moment a strange look came into his eyes, then they went cold again, and he laughed reassuringly.

“Ha! Ha! you mustn’t mind me. It’s purely paternal. It won’t do you any harm. Now go and get a good supper. I’ll want you to-morrow. Don’t look at me in such a frightened way. I’m not an ogre. I won’t eat you.”

The next day she posed for him again, but this time he did not attempt to kiss her. He was very authoritative.

“Pull up your sleeves,” he said sharply.

She obeyed. He looked derisively at her skinny arms.

“Now, open your dress and show me your shoulders. Coil up your hair on your head first.”

Again she obeyed. When he was like this she was not afraid of him. It was as if there were two men in him, the artist and the satyr. He was all artist as he continued:

“Humph! You’ll never do. You’re nothing but bones and green shadows.”

He threw down his palette and walked heavily about the room.

“Too bad you’re so thin. I feel I could do big things with you. But I must, I must! We’ll fatten you up if it takes a year. Listen, I’m going away to-morrow to Morocco. I’ll be gone a month. In that time I want you to get fat. Do nothing, eat lots, read, amuse yourself. Turn your angles into curves. You hear?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now, don’t forget. If you’re not round and smooth by the time I come back, I will have no more use for you. Then it’s the street. You know what that means. Go!”

She went, and later on she heard him instructing the housekeeper.

“I’m going to-morrow, Madame Mangepain, to Morocco, and I want that girl to be plumped up. Fatten her as you would a chicken. She’s going to be my favourite model. I can do great things with her. Great things! Let her do no work. Wait on her. Feed her dainty dishes. Buy her fine clothes, silks and that sort of thing. Books too. Don’t let her move about too much. Remember, it’s for my sake not hers. I rely on you, Madame Mangepain. And I say, address her as mademoiselle.”

He left next morning and Margot felt a huge sense of relief. It was as if something corrupt had gone out of the house. She could not get over this feeling of pourriture even when she was posing for him in the big studio. Perhaps his breath was so fetid, that it pervaded every room he entered.

When he had gone, her life changed completely. Madame Mangepain said to her at supper:

“Don’t get up to-morrow morning. I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed.”

“Oh, no, madame.”

“I tell you I will. It’s the Master’s orders. I’ve been told to serve you and I will ... mademoiselle.”

“Oh, please don’t call me mademoiselle.”

“It’s the Master’s orders.”

The next morning the girl remained in bed until the old woman sidled in with a tray of café au lait, croissants and fine butter.

“Now stay in bed till I come back.”

The girl heard her go out, locking the door. She returned an hour later carrying a large parcel containing a kimono of mauve silk, fine lace underwear, silk stockings, and velvet shoes.

“There! Put these on. It’s the Master’s orders. And I’ll go and prepare your bath.”

It must be said that Madame Mangepain entered on her undertaking with zeal if not with enthusiasm. She taught the girl the elegancies of the toilette, the care of her skin, how to point and polish her nails and to bring to perfection her teeth and her hair. She had quite a battery of bottles and brushes, of oils and paints and perfumes. Margot spent every morning in the white-tiled bathroom, meticulously following the régime that the old woman demanded of her.

For luncheon, each day she was given dainty dishes such as she had never dreamed of; then, wrapt in the mauve kimono and stretched out on the great divan in the studio amid a pile of cushions, she would read one of the luridly covered novels the old woman bought for her. Among them were Chéri-Bebé, Dracula and Les deux Gosses. These books absorbed her, made her forget her strange surroundings, which otherwise filled her with a vague fear. Sometimes she even thought of escape, when she sat on fine afternoons in the wild unweeded garden amid the headless statues. By climbing upon one of them she could have gained the top of the wall and freedom. But after that ... what? The streets! She had a horror of the outer world which the old woman never lost an opportunity of developing. According to Madame Mangepain Paris was a merciless ogre, demanding its daily tribute of a thousand girls such as she, crushing and devouring them.

One day as she peered through a window into the street, she saw a girl about her age in a violet blouse with black, oily hair banged on her forehead, and at her side, a pale stunted youth with a reckless mouth and eyes cold as those of a snake. They seemed to be having words. Suddenly the youth struck the girl, knocking her down; then snatched a cheap trinket from her throat, and with a final vicious kick, went off laughing cynically. This typical scene of apache life made a deep impression on her.

“It’s all like that,” she thought,—“the life out there. It’s what will happen to me.”

“Ah, I’ll make a beauty of you yet,” said Madame Mangepain at the end of the second week. “Monsieur Frossard won’t know you when he comes back.”

And indeed the girl was amazed at the change in herself. Her skin had become smooth and velvety, her limbs round and firm. Her face, too, had changed. It had retained its quality of childishness, but had lost its cowed and shrinking look. Hints of sweetness and charm revealed themselves. If only she could get away, find decent work, escape from the sinister old man into whose clutches she had fallen. Every day the dread of his return grew upon her.

Then one night Monsieur Frossard came back.

When she brought Margot her coffee next morning Madame Mangepain said to her:

“Get up and make yourself as beautiful as you can. Monsieur Frossard wants to see you in the studio. Be sure you are a credit to me.”

The old woman went so far as to superintend her toilette, putting a faint flush of rouge high on her cheeks, and brushing her hair like spun gold down over the mauve kimono. But nothing could mask the wretchedness in the depths of the girl’s eyes.

As she stood in the doorway of the studio Monsieur Frossard turned ponderously.

“Entrez, voyons. Don’t stand there like a Christian martyr going to the stake. Come here.”

With eyes cast down she obeyed. He pulled up the sleeve of her kimono and looked at her arm with a critical, dispassionate gaze.

“Ah, bon. Now do up your hair in the glass and bare your shoulders. I’m going to do a bust of you to-day.”

Again she obeyed, his eyes following her eagerly.

“Sit on the model’s chair. Bare your breast more. What are you afraid of, you little fool? Remember, I’m an artist. I’ve been itching to paint you, itching. I’ve thought of you all the time I’ve been away. I have a dozen ideas. I’m going to make you famous.”

A passion almost cruel in its intensity seemed to seize him. Imperiously he made her hold the pose and painted with swift sure strokes. He stopped reluctantly for lunch and bade her hurry and again take the pose. He worked until the light failed, then laid aside his brush with a regretful sigh.

“Voila! Come and look at this.”

Again the girl marvelled at what she saw. These curves of milky shoulders, that slim, silky beauty of neck and throat, the shell-like ear, the faintly hollow cheek with its suggestion of pathetic sweetness, and above all the superb mass of hair,—here glinting with the brightness of stubble in September sunshine, there richly gold as the ripened grain. Could this really be she? Frossard might be a devil, but he painted like an angel.

“I’m tired now,” he said, “I want to rest until dinner. You’ll take dinner with me in the studio. We’ll celebrate.”

She heard him with a heaviness of heart. All his artistic fire had left him and he seemed to be very old. More than ever she was conscious of his odour, and the flies that followed him everywhere. The joy the sight of her picture had given her was extinguished. She went away quickly.

Madame Mangepain served them a dinner that excelled anything the girl had ever conceived. Margot ate scarcely at all. Frossard, however, made up for her lack of appetite. He filled himself with delicious food, washed down with draughts of Beaunè from a dusty bottle. He lingered long over the dessert, talking to her of his travels in Morocco, and looking for all the world, like a bloated, heavy-eyed pasha.

“Have one of these cigarettes,” he said. “I get them specially in Cairo.”

The girl refused.

“Then, you must have a glass of this champagne. It’s quite harmless. You can dip one of those biscuits in it.”

He bade her finish the champagne. It was the first she had ever tasted and it made her dizzy. The old man seemed to have grown very vivacious. He was taking glass after glass, and talking more and more excitedly. Suddenly he reached out and took hold of her.

Then fear seized her. She struggled to escape, but he held her tight. All at once she felt his shiny little lips on her neck, cold as the mouth of the fish called a sucker. She had just been reading “Dracula,” a story about vampires, and the idea flashed into her mind that this old man was going to bite her neck and suck her blood. She screamed.

He was panting, and a wild light was in his eyes. “It’s no use to squeal. Madame Mangepain has gone out. You are all alone in the house with me.”

Terror gave her strength. With a wrench and a twist she broke away, leaving the mauve kimono in his hands. She ran to the door of the studio; but before she reached it he was after her. He had her again in his arms. Great strength seemed suddenly to come to him. His eyes glared, his breath came with a hiss.

“Ah! you won’t escape. I’ll have you. Ach! you struggle, you little vixen! But your resistance only maddens me. It’s no use, you’re mine, mine.”

Fighting with all the force that was in her, she was borne backward, and thrown heavily on the divan. She saw his face bending over her, his eyes alight, the saliva drooling from his mouth. Once more she struggled but he held her with a grip of steel. She felt herself grow faint. Again and again she shrieked. Oh God! Would no one come to her aid?

She felt her strength leaving her. All she could see were his eyes, flaming with cruel lust. How she hated those eyes. She would destroy them, put out their light, if it cost the last effort of her life. Wrenching her arms free she caught his head at the temples, and with a fierce thrust pushed her small, pointed thumbs into the gloating eyes. With an oath the man pulled himself free and struck her down. Then he threw himself on the couch, screaming, screaming.

She ran to the front door but it was locked. She rushed up to her room and bolted herself in. She lay on her bed sobbing hysterically. She heard the sound of hurried feet, much coming and going. In the silence that followed Madame Mangepain knocked at her door.

“Open, you little viper.”

The face of Madame Mangepain was cold and deadly in its fury. “You’ve done it now. You’ve finished the Master. The doctor says he’ll never see again. He’ll be blind, do you hear; blind. A great artist, a genius worth a dozen little trollops like you. Now go, and an old woman’s curse go with you!”

With that Madame Mangepain took her by the shoulders and threw her into the street. She heard the door bang behind her. She was alone in Paris.

CHAPTER THREE
THE BISTRO ON THE RUE DE BELVILLE

THE crash of the closing door struck a note of terror in the girl’s heart. It was long after midnight, and she was at the mercy of this sinister city. She tripped over a box of ash-pan refuse that stood on the edge of the pavement; from it ran two large rats. Afraid to be longer in the unlighted street she made her way down to the Boulevard de Clichy.

On the Butte another hectic night had ended. In the cafés the waiters were stacking the tables; the theatres were dark and silent, the girls of the pavement loitering homeward with their men. Only from the rakehell restaurants of the Place Pigalle did there issue sounds of revelry. It was Montmartre of the profligate, of the apache. Under the greenish glare of the electric light the girl cowered, a tiny black shadow in a world of sinister shadows. Then sinking down on one of the benches she gave herself up to despair.

Now and again a man addressed her; but she kept her face hidden in her arched arms and did not answer. She trembled at every footstep; the hours seemed endless; she longed for the dawn.

Chilled through she rose and walked on. Two gendarmes looked curiously at her. She was afraid they would arrest her, and quickened her steps. She kept moving until she was exhausted, then she sank down on another bench.

Stale and jaded, like a drab after a night of excess the dawn came in. The sallow light seemed to shudder up the sky. Already the city gave signs of awakening to another day. The milk-merchants opened their doors; boys on bicycles delivered bundles of newspapers; the bakers took down their shutters. From where she sat, Margot watched a number of work-girls buy fresh rolls, then go to a little bar across the way, and eat their déjeuner of bread and coffee. Soon bells sounded from neighbouring factories, and the girls hurried away.

From the little bar came a woman. At first Margot thought she was a dwarf, but a second glance showed her to be a hunchback. She was very clean and tidy. Her face had that look of patient suffering so often seen on the faces of hunchbacks. It was a very kind, sweet face, but with a certain shrewdness. She nodded to Margot in a friendly way.

“Well, dearie, things going well?”

The girl looked at her with sad eyes.

“Ah! I see,—in the soup. Well, it arrives to all the world. One day up, another down. Come and give me a hand with my shutters. Sapristi! what it is not to have a man in the business.”

Margot helped the woman to take down the shutters. Over the shop was painted the sign:

A LA MÈRE TRANQUILLE,

and this sign was repeated on the window and the door. Inside there was a circular bar lined with zinc; and around it half a dozen marble-topped tables.

“Now, come in, dearie,” said the little hunchback. “I’m just going to sit down to breakfast, and you are going to join me.”

With that she took the girl by the arm and led her behind the bar. They had fresh rolls and butter, and hot fragrant coffee. The girl devoured the food as if famished and the woman watched her curiously.

“You certainly are hungry, my child,” she observed. “It’s good to see you eat. You look tired too, as if you had been out all night. From the country, aren’t you?”

Encouraged by the little woman’s sympathy the girl told her story. When she had finished the Mère Tranquille looked at her thoughtfully.

“Just so,” she said, “a poor, pretty girl alone in Paris is about as safe as a young lamb lost among wolves. You’ll get devoured, my dear, as sure as sure. Look here, I can see you’re an honest girl. I tell you what. I need some one to help me here. Come and stay with me for a while,—at least till you find something better. You will live with me and help me in the bar. You shall be at no expense and you can make four or five francs a day in tips. Will you come?”

“Oh, madame, you don’t know how gladly! Let me begin work now.”

“No, you’re too tired. You want a good long rest. Come with me.”

In the little room behind the bar, the Mère Tranquille arranged a folding bed, and soon the girl was sleeping soundly.

Thus there began for Margot a life that was strangely interesting. Except at rush hours the little place was very quiet, and the work not hard. She quickly got over her first timidity with the customers and learned to turn a deaf ear to their rather crude pleasantries. There was, too, a certain reserve in her manner that made her more respected than popular. The little hunchback gave out that Margot was her niece from the country, and her stiffness was not resented. Most of the customers were working people, but there was also a certain backwash of the underworld. Above the bar was one of those hotels that have no name. By night its glowing transparency winked and signalled to the amorous adventurer; by day it was haunted by yawning girls in greasy dressing gowns, and by dark cynical men. Towards evening these girls “put on their beauty,” and unbelievably transformed, sallied forth; while the men played cards in cafés and awaited their return.

It was one of these men who took a great fancy to Margot and tried to dominate her. He was familiarly known as Popol, and openly boasted that he had already three girls earning money for him. He, indeed, aspired to be a sort of leader among his fellows, a Napoleon of the bullies. His ambition was fostered by the fact that he was born in the slums of Agaccio, and bore a certain physical resemblance to the Great Corsican. He was a stout, stocky fellow, with a large head, clean-shaven, regular features and a certain cold impressiveness of manner. There, however, the resemblance ended; for Popol had close-set eyes as cold and deadly as those of a rattlesnake, a mouth that twisted cynically, and a nose that had been broken in a fight.

Popol never quarrelled openly with any one; he had never been known to draw a knife, yet other men were afraid of him, and those who offended him met with unexpected misfortunes. It was even said he was a spy of the police and did detective work of the dirtier kind. He had brains, a cunning and subtlety that made him a power amid his fellows.

With his cynical conception of all women he thought Margot would be flattered by his favours. One day in the street he barred her way, accosting her with some foul banter. She tried to push past him, and escape. He laughed sneeringly, then, gripping her arms, tried to kiss her. Filled with a loathing she could not control, she struck him full in the face. Popol swore vilely and released her.

It was with ashen cheeks and wildly beating heart that she regained the little bar. The Mère Tranquille looked troubled when she heard the story, but pretended to laugh it off.

“Don’t be alarmed, chérie; I can defend you against a dozen of these swine. Just treat them like the dirt they are. Ah! if only I could sell out and retire to the country! Since my husband died, the business is not what it used to be. I got an offer last week of fifteen thousand francs for the good will, but I am holding out for twenty. That’s what we gave.... It’s curious how we got the money....”

The Mère Tranquille paused reminiscently, then continued:

“It was at Monte Carlo, where we went for our honeymoon. Josef would play at the Casino, and on the second day he came to me: ‘I’ve lost everything but that,’ he said, pressing a hundred franc bill into my hand.

“‘A nice state of affairs,’ I cried indignantly. ‘It’s just enough to take us back to Paris third class.’

“‘It’s not to take us back to Paris,’ he told me. ‘It’s make or break. I want you to play with it. Perhaps, you’ll change the luck.’

“I knew what he meant and I never have forgiven him for it. You know, my dear, that any one deformed as I am, is said to always win at games of chance. Indeed, when we had stood around the tables I had noticed people brush up against me and touch my back in passing. Well, I was so angry with Josef I snatched the money from him.

“‘I’ll show you,’ I thought. ‘This money will go after the other. If I don’t lose it, it won’t be my fault.’

“With that I threw it on the first vacant place on the table nearest my hand. It happened to be rouge. I wanted to see that money swept away. There were tears in my eyes, tears of rage. What do you think! Rouge came. I left everything on the table. Again rouge came. Josef wanted to take up half the winnings:

“‘No,’ I said vindictively; ‘let it all go.’

“Again rouge came. There were now eight hundred, francs on the table.

“‘Take it up,’ whispered Josef frantically; ‘It’s more than I lost.’ But I answered: ‘No, it’s my money. It stays there.’ For the thought of his exploiting my deformity still rankled. Well, again I won. This time Josef was crazy. He tried to take up the money himself, but I appealed to the croupiers. The chef de table said: ‘The money is madame’s. I saw her put it down. Monsieur has no right to touch it.’

“Josef was foaming. He said, ‘But madame is my wife. What’s hers is mine.’ The chef shrugged his shoulders; ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘that is the law in France, but here you are in the Casino of Monte Carlo, and that money is madame’s.’

“By this time the wheel had spun again. Again rouge. I had three thousand two hundred francs on the table. The crowd began to gather and every one to take sides, some with my husband, some with me. Meantime the stake remained. Once more the ball spun round. Rouge!

“I had now six thousand four hundred francs on the table, four hundred more than the maximum; and I refused to touch it. I threw the four hundred on the next division of the table which happened to be impair. Rouge—impair came up. I simply could not lose, however hard I tried. People were coming from other tables to watch us. Josef had gone white as a sheet and was speechless. He seemed paralyzed. I had now twelve thousand eight hundred. I could see the croupiers were pleased that I was winning, for that sort of thing is a great advertisement for the Casino. I shifted my eight hundred to the division higher up,—manque, I think, and put the six bills of a thousand on impair. I had now six thousand on rouge; six thousand on impair and eight hundred on manque. Once more the ball spun. This time I myself was quite excited. I felt my heart beat. The place began to swim. Then like a person in a dream, I heard the croupier say:

“‘Twenty-seven, rouge, impair and passe.’

“The spell was broken; I had lost the eight hundred I had put on manque but I had won the other two. Twenty-four thousand francs were mine in the space of ten minutes. I simply fainted....”

“Did you like Monte Carlo?” asked Margot.

“I did and didn’t. It’s a dangerous place, a wicked place. But, so beautiful! After that experience we came away. Josef was sick of it and swore he would never gamble again. We bought this café and here I have been for fifteen years.”

“It seems to me I should like to go there,” said the girl dreamily.

“Don’t ever go. It’s no place for poor people. And yet I have heard there are lots of women who make a living there.”

The subject dropped, but Margot was strangely interested and again and again referred to it. Monte Carlo seemed to her like some strange exquisite jewel glittering in a setting of sky, sea and mountain. It held her imagination. It became part of her dreams.

The next time she met Popol her heart beat painfully; but there was nothing in his face to inspire fear. He was polite, almost ingratiating.

“Mademoiselle, I apologize for my rudeness the other day. As a peace offering let me beg your acceptance of this....”

He held out a silver bag, which no doubt he had taken from one of his wretched girls. Margot shook her head.

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll excuse you if you wish, but I don’t want to accept any present.”

“No? Then will mademoiselle do me the honour to dine with me this evening?”

“No, I cannot. I am not free.”

“Oh, I will beg madame, your aunt, to release you.”

“Thank you; but you must excuse me. I do not want to dine with any one.”

He repeated this offer several times. He had never failed with a girl before and his vanity was stung. From coaxings he came to threats.

“I’ll get you yet, you little devil, you,” he told her. “Even if I have to kidnap you, I’ll get you yet.”

There was a deadly certitude about Popol that made his threats impressive. Her fear of him became such an obsession that she would not go outside after dark. She told the Mère Tranquille she wanted to leave the quarter, but the hunchback laughed away her fears.

“Wait a little longer, my dear. I expect to sell the business any day. Then we’ll have a villa in the country. We will grow our own salads and receive the rector in the salon. None will dream we ever lived in this pourriture of Paris.”

“You will take me with you, madame?”

“Yes, you shall be my adopted daughter. Then I will marry you to the village butcher and you shall have a lovely little daughter called Denise, after me.”

The girl made a grimace. “I don’t want to marry a butcher.”

“Fastidious one! Whom do you want to marry?”

“A poet.”

“Sentimental little fool! I suppose you’re thinking of that Florent Garnier who comes here and spends so much time staring at you.”

“Oh, madame! He never looks at me!”

“You think so. Sly one! Why, my dear, he’s head over heels in love with you. A good-for-nothing socialist, too. Take my advice, Poulette, love’s all very well, but it’s money that counts in the long run.”

Margot had indeed an unexpected ally in Florent Garnier. He was tall, strong, and dark, a carpenter by trade. Every day he took his after-dinner coffee in the bar. There he would sit quietly reading a book and smoking cigarettes. One day he said to her:

“Listen, Margot. If that dog of a Popol tries to molest you, let me know. I’ll do him up; make a hospital case of him. See!”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t like you to have any trouble on my account.”

“Trouble! An exquisite pleasure. Look here, Margot.... Won’t you come with me to the cinema some night?”

“No, thank you. I never go out with any one.”

“I know you don’t. That’s why I ask you. Well, I won’t press you. You may change your mind. In any case, I’m watching, and if you need a protector I’m here.”

The girl was touched, but at the same time embarrassed. She did not care enough for Garnier to be more than a comrade to him, and something told her this would be difficult. He could not comprehend that coldness of temperament, which was her English heritage, and made her able to be friendly with a man while keeping a barrier between them. Garnier was from the south, romantic, hotblooded. He would never be able to understand. She decided to keep him at a distance, though she liked him immensely.

The conflict between him and Popol came sooner than she expected. There was a big strike of the carpenters, and Florent Garnier was an executive. Though he was very busy addressing meetings and spent most of his time at the Bourse du Travail, nevertheless he often came into the bar to rest for half an hour over a cup of coffee.

It was on an afternoon in early Spring. Madame had gone out and Margot was alone behind the bar. In a dusky corner Florent Garnier sat silent. He looked tired and worried. The strike was not going well. The patrons were getting outside labour; something had to be done.

Everything was bright and shining. The zinc counter was polished to look like silver, the glasses to resemble crystal. Outside there was a flutter of green leaves and the chirping of sparrows. It was a year since Margot had come to Paris. On the whole it had been a happy year. As an education it had been priceless. Now she knew the city and its perils and was armoured against its temptations. She was equipped to fight the battle. She was feeling unusually gay and sang as she waited for customers.

Popol entered. “Ha! mademoiselle. You are alone. You may give me a picon citron.”

While she was pouring it out he caught her hand. Angrily she wrenched it away.

“Ah! my pretty one,” he sneered. “When are you going to be my sweetheart?”

The exclamation of disgust was no sooner out of her mouth than Florent Garnier was on his feet. He came forward deliberately, and lifting the glass dashed the dark liquor in Popol’s face.

For a moment Popol drew back. He wiped his eyes, and glared with surprise and rage; he fumbled at his belt, and made a swift dart at Garnier. But the powerful artizan was prepared. Swinging a chair round his head he brought it crashing down. Popol crumpled up and lay still.

“Did you see him?” said Garnier coolly. “The dog had a knife in his hand; he would have stuck me. He has got his medicine. Leave him alone. He’ll come round. I’ll take his knife though.”

When Popol got up, he did not seem much the worse; but his yellow face was convulsed and he was as vindictive as poison.

“I’ll fix you yet,” he cried. “I’ll pay you both with interest, you and your lover. And before many days are over. Look out!”

“Did you hear him?” said Garnier when Popol had gone.

“Yes. He frightens me terribly.”

“You needn’t fear. You heard him call me your lover. Listen, Margot ... let me be your lover, your husband. You need some one to protect you. I tell you we’ll be happy....”

“I know, Florent. I’ve thought of it a lot, but I can’t.—I like you.—There’s none I like so well—But I don’t love you. Wait awhile. I’ll try to love you. I really will....”

Garnier went sadly away, and some days passed without his returning. Margot became anxious. Then one afternoon Popol entered. Fortunately the Mère Tranquille was in the bar with her.

“Ha! Ha!” said Popol. “He’s been arrested, that pig of a sweetheart of yours. Interfering with the strikebreakers. It’s to me he owes it, too. He’ll get a year sure. And I haven’t finished yet. It’s your turn next time.”

“Get out of this,” cried madame, “or I’ll smash your face with a bottle.” She brandished one ready to throw, and Popol with another exultant laugh backed out of the door.

“You mustn’t be afraid of him,” said the Mère Tranquille.

“I am,—dreadfully. I want to go away. I really do.”

“I tell you he shan’t harm a hair of your head.”

“It isn’t only that, madame. You’ve been so good to me.... I’ll never forget it, but I feel I have been here long enough. I don’t like it,—the drinking, the men,—I want to be quiet. Before I came to Paris I was learning dress-making. I want to go back to that, to live in a world of women, and make a living by my needle.”

“I quite understand,” said the Mère Tranquille. “Listen, my little Margot. I’ve really come to love you like a daughter. You’ve changed so wonderfully since you came here. You’ve learnt to laugh, to sing. I’ve seen the woman dawning in you.... It’s finished, I’ve sold out at last. I’m taking a little cottage in Normandy and you’re coming with me. I’m lonely. I want you. You shall be my daughter.”

“Can it be true?”

“Yes. In another month it will all be arranged. Then no more Paris. The blessed, green country, peace, comfort. I want you to take care of me. I have been tired lately,—my heart. In another month,—say you’ll come, Margot?”

“It seems like a dream.”

“You’ll come?”

“Yes, yes! Would that it were to-morrow.”

The two mingled their tears of happiness and from that day spent their time in making plans for the future. The cottage was to have a great garden, with apple and pear trees. They would keep rabbits and chickens. How blessed the country seemed; how hateful the city!

“Margot,” said the Mère Tranquille one day. “Go out this afternoon and buy some clothes for the country. Here! take this bill of a hundred francs. Just think of it! In another week we’ll be there.”

The girl did think of it and it filled her with happiness. Yet all the time she was going the round of the big shops she had a curious foreboding that was realized as she returned to the shabby street. Something was wrong; the little bar was closed, and a crowd hung around the door.

“What’s the matter?”

A gendarme looked at her indifferently.

“It’s the patronne. She dropped dead quite suddenly. Her heart they say....”

As she stared in a dazed fashion at the crowd, she saw the yellow face of Popol. Terror filled her and she shrank away. Slipping into her room by the back door, she bundled her few things into a bag and stealthily left the house.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE BATTLE OF LIFE

SHE found a little room in that quarter of Paris known as the Nation. It was bright and high, and open to the sky. During the year she had worked in the bar she had saved a few hundred francs, and had no immediate anxiety about the future. She decided that for a month she would rest and make some new under-linen, of which she was sadly in need.

It was a very happy month for her. She was fond of solitude and loved to dream. Sometimes she passed the long afternoons in the Parc de Vincennes close to the water. As she sewed she would watch the children at their play. A sweet emotion thrilled her. She pretended that she was preparing her trousseau. Who was bridegroom to be? Ah! she could not imagine.

All along her street were makers of furniture, and the sight of their workshops made her think of Florent Garnier. Poor fellow! He had been given six months. She had read all about it in “Humanité.”

In these long sunny days she often wondered and worried about Cécile. At last she wrote to her grandmother. The old woman, who could not use a pen, replied through a neighbour that her mother had gone to London taking the little girl with her. That settled the matter. Margot gave up all hope of seeing her sister again.

As the weeks passed, and her nerves were tranquilized by the sweetness of her life, she began to lose her fear of Popol. He became more and more an evil dream. Once even she mustered up courage enough to go back to the little bar. A fat red-faced man served her with a petit noir. He did not recognize her, and a new sense of security filled her.

Then one day as she sat sewing in the Place de la Nation close to the fountain, she had a violent fright. Suddenly a voice behind her rose to an exultant cry:

“Well! Well! Here you are. I’ve found you at last.”

She turned sharply. A man was looking at her in an ecstasy of admiration. He was a tubby, rosy little man, distinguished only by a waxed moustache and a white waistcoat. He was waltzing around her, and rubbing his hands excitedly. Yet she was convinced she had never seen him before.

“Sit still, sit still, mademoiselle,” he cried. “Sapristi! I’ve been looking all over Paris for you. Allow me to introduce myself.”

Instead of a card he handed her a small bottle. It contained a pink liquid, and on its label she read wonderingly:

Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm.

“That’s it,” said the little man delightedly. “‘B.B.B.’ Hit ’em hard with the ‘B.’ I’m Bruneau. It’s my invention. The finest hair lotion in the world.”

“But I don’t want it,” protested Margot.

“No, but it wants you. I want you. Got to have you. I want you to advertise the Balm. Sit with your back to the window; hair down, all shining and brushed out. Bottles of the Balm arranged all about you. Crowds in front of the window all the time. My place is on the Rue de Rivoli. Come on, let’s come to terms.”

“But, I don’t want to do that.”

“My dear, there’s nothing to do. You just sit there from ten till twelve and from two till five. You can sew, you can read if you like. No one will see your face. You can forget there’s a crowd watching you. It’s a soft thing, and I’ll pay you better than if you were doing real work. Come now, twenty francs a day. You really have no right to refuse.”

“No,” she thought, “I have no right to refuse.” Then aloud, “Very well, I’ll try it.”

The following day she went to the hair-dresser’s shop and put herself in the delighted hands of Monsieur Bruneau. The little man considered himself an artist, as every man should, however humble his vocation. He arranged Margot’s hair with reverence, washing, perfuming, and brushing it until it was like a mantle of spun gold.

When she took her place in the window, he placed a small mirror so that she could see all the faces in the crowd without being seen herself. This amused her. She never wearied of watching the thousands of admiring eyes she saw reflected daily in the mirror. It gave her a sense of pride, of elation. Over her was placed a placard which read:

The most beautiful hair in Paris.
The result of using
Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm.

As the days went by the little man with the waistcoat became more and more enraptured. The Balm was selling so fast that he could not have it bottled quickly enough. He was obliged to extend his laboratory, as he called the back shop where it was prepared, and employ a traveller selling it to the wholesale trade. He had also an advertising contract with the newspapers. Then quite suddenly he lost his demonstrator.

Margot was gazing idly at her little mirror, when she saw a face there that seemed to stop the beating of her heart. It was a hairless yellow face, with rattlesnake eyes. It was a cruel, cunning face set in a malignant grin, the face of the hunter who has tracked his prey—Popol!

As she left the shop he was waiting for her and walked along with her.

“Aren’t you going to take me home with you?” he asked.

She stopped. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”

“No,” he sneered, “I’ve been to too much trouble to find you. Listen, little one. I want you. I’ve always wanted you since you stood me off. Now I’m going to have you. No use your struggling. Popol always gets what he wants. If I can’t get you by fair means, I’ll get you by foul. With my pals I’ll carry you off some night. You are all alone now, no one to defend you. If you make any trouble, I’ll simply kill you.”

“Will you leave me? If you don’t stop talking to me, I’ll appeal to this sergent de ville.”

She went up to the policeman; he listened to her, twisting a huge moustache that sprouted from a very red face.

“Don’t worry, mademoiselle,” he said finally, “the monsieur only wants to be amiable.” Yet, he waved a warning hand at Popol.

Popol crossed to the other side of the street and Margot hurried on. But no matter how fast she walked, how many sharp turns she took or how many side streets she entered, Popol was always there. How could she get rid of him? Just as she was at her wit’s end she found herself at an entrance of the Métro. Quick as a flash she darted down the steps.

A train was at the station and she jumped into a first class carriage. The sliding door closed; she had given him the slip.

But at the next station he got into her coach. He had caught the last of the second class carriages. He grinned at her from the other side of the compartment, but did not speak. She despaired of being able to shake him off; she was helpless.

When they stopped at the next station she was standing close to the door; near her was a white-haired old gentleman with the Legion of Honour in his button hole. As the train was starting again, she suddenly cried:

“Mon Dieu! it’s my station. Let me get off.”

The automatic doors were already closing but the old man held them back. “Quick, madame.” She slipped between them and they shut behind her like a trap. She was safe on the platform. She saw Popol make frantic efforts to get off and an irate official who was only too glad of an opportunity to assert his authority, push him back. As the train glided into the tunnel she had a parting glimpse of his face snarling with rage.

She took a return train and hurried home. She could not go back to Bruneau’s, she decided, but must seek other work. The next morning she did not stir from the house, and about midday the little hair-dresser called, anxiety written on his face. He begged, he coaxed; but to all his entreaties she was deaf; he went away disconsolate.

She had been working for nearly two months and had saved over five hundred francs. She could afford to wait a few days before looking for something else to do. She felt very happy, very safe up her six flights of stairs. Very much like a bird, so near the sky! She sang in the sunshine. Taking her work she seated herself at the window and looked down into the street. Then quickly she shrank back. There on the opposite pavement was Popol. He was looking up and had seen her. Fool that she was to think she could evade him. Of course he had got her address at the hair-dresser’s. There was no escaping him. At least she would make another attempt. That night, seeing that the coast was clear, she hurried to the Gare de Lyon and took a ticket for a station selected at random. It turned out to be a remote village in the Jura.

Every morning she awakened to the mellow sound of cow-bells, and standing at her window breathed the pure, delicious air. Beyond the mountain was Switzerland. She longed to go further, to travel. If ever she had money enough she would go to the south, to the sunshine, to Monte Carlo. She would try her luck. Perhaps she would be as successful as the Mère Tranquille had been. When her money came to an end, she returned to Paris with memories of huge green valleys, of crystal brooks, and of deep solemn pine woods.

The next year was a very hard and checkered one. She first got a place in the workshop of a big dress-maker,—Plumeau’s. She had not been there long when one evening Monsieur Plumeau called her into his private office. He was a white-haired old man, very well-dressed. He told her politely that it was the privilege of his prettiest employées to dine with him occasionally. He called the directress.

“Select for Mademoiselle a robe that suits her,” he then said to the girl. “We will have dinner to-night at the Café de Paris.” He seemed to take it for granted she would accept, and was quite amazed when she walked out with head held high. He shrugged his shoulders.

“So much the worse,” he said. “Dismiss her.”

Margot was given an envelope with her week’s pay and told to look for another place.

It was more difficult to find this time, for she had no reference from Plumeau’s. She was forced finally to seek employment in a great barrack-like building that employed three thousand girls. It was the workshop of one of the great stores on the Boulevard Haussmann, and was conducted with military severity. Her hours were from eight in the morning until a quarter past six in the evening. The work was hard and monotonous; the pay just enough to cover her simple living expenses.

For long months she slaved with her needle, never getting ahead. She became shabby, tired, faint-hearted. When her holiday of ten days came around she had not enough money to go away and spent the time in her room. There were girls around her coquettishly dressed, with men who waited for them every evening. That was all right; nobody minded a girl having an ami who helped her. There were some, however, more elegantly clad who were considered scarcely respectable. Of such a one it was whispered: “Elle fait sa tappe sur le Boulevard.” Margot made no friends amongst the other girls and was always alone.

So passed a year; then to her delight she got a position with a milliner on the Boulevard Saint Michel. Over the door was the name, “Folette.” Everybody stopped to look at the window, her hats were so dainty, so daring. She was renowned for her chic, and even sober men whose interests were far removed from feminine millinery, stopped and stared at her latest creations. Below the shop was the workshop. The girls sat on either side of a long table with boxes of feathers, ribbands, flowers beside them. They sewed, pieced, and basted, chattering happily the while. From time to time Madame Folette would descend to criticise and give suggestions; she encouraged them to develop their own ideas, to be creative.

The girl had been there eighteen months, when, one day, Madame Folette descended to the atelier.

“Margot, I want to speak to you.”

“Yes, madame.”

“How would you like to serve in the shop? I want a saleswoman to assist me. You have learnt all there is to learn in the making of hats. You should now learn to sell them.”

“Madame is too kind.”

“Not at all. I have chosen you, because you are the prettiest girl in the atelier. You have the most beautiful hair I ever saw. You will buy a nice-fitting black-silk dress, black-silk stockings and little slippers of black patent leather. Black will show off your soft complexion and your pale gold hair.”

Margot hastened to express her joy and the change was made. By day she dusted and arranged the stock and waited on the customers in the white panelled little shop usually flooded with sunshine. She was very happy. At night she returned to her tiny room under the mansarde of a house on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Her window opened on a small balcony where she grew sweet peas and nasturtiums. She had a gay canary that came out of its cage and hopped on her finger. She cooked dainty dishes in snowy enamel ware. It was quite a radiant little interior.

She was more than usually happy one Sunday, and sang as she dressed. She had an engagement with a girl called Jeanne, who was premier at the atelier of Madame Folette. The two had decided to take a little shop on the Boulevard below, and start in business for themselves. Jeanne was a steady, clever girl who thoroughly understood the running of a workshop. She was to make the hats, Margot to sell them. They had savings enough to start. Margot was thinking over their plans and singing happily when the laundress arrived with her week’s washing. As she took it from the parcel she noticed an odour of phenol.

“What a horrid smell,” she thought. Then she changed the sheets on her bed, and went off forgetting all about it.

The week passed as usual, but towards its end Margot began to feel strangely tired. She struggled with her growing fatigue for two days, then Madame Folette said to her:

“Margot, you’re looking ghastly. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know, madame. I am so cold I shiver all the time.”

“You had better go home and go to bed.”

“Very well, madame. No doubt I will be better to-morrow.”

On the morrow Margot was worse, and within two days she had to ask the concierge to call the doctor. He looked a little puzzled when he examined her, but prescribed a treatment, and said he would call again later. On his third visit a curious red rash covered her.

“Hum!” he said, “I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever.”

On his next visit he was still more puzzled and asked her many searching questions. He went away looking very serious indeed. All that day Margot waited, anxious and unhappy. The red spots developed in the strangest manner. When the doctor returned late at night and saw them something like a shudder passed over him. He drew on his gloves hastily.

“There’s nothing to do, mademoiselle. I am going to the Institute Pasteur. They will send an ambulance first thing in the morning. You are lucky that I can get you in. You will get better attention there than anywhere else.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You mustn’t worry. It is most unfortunate. It must have been those clothes from the laundry. I am going straight to the police. Please wait patiently till the ambulance comes. Don’t be alarmed.”

“But, doctor, tell me, for the love of God! What have I got?”

He looked around as if to be sure there were no listeners, then said slowly:

“My poor girl, I may be mistaken but I think it’s....”

She gazed at him with eyes that were strained with horror.

“Oh, no, doctor, don’t tell me it’s that....” she gasped.

But the physician had gone and she fell back on her bed. She was dazed. It was unthinkable. Then as her mind began to grasp the truth, despair fell on her.

“Oh, it’s cruel,” she moaned. “I have worked so hard and kept honest, yet everything goes against me. I ask so little, yet always when I am about to better myself, something terrible happens. Oh, Life, Life! You’re hard on me ... you’re hurting me so....”

What was the use of struggling? She would let herself die. If only she had some veronal she would take a fatal dose....

“But, no,” she cried, courage coming back to her. “I’ve fought all along and I’ll die fighting. I’ll laugh to the end.... I will be the victor....”

Worn out she sank into a troubled sleep.

When she woke it was to hear her little clock strike two. How long the night was! Would the dawn never come? The dawn with the ambulance! What was that about an ambulance? No, it was all a dream, an evil dream—what the doctor had told her. She would sleep again. She was so tired, so tired....

Was that something moving out in the hall? The house was very quiet. What strange fancies she had. She must be going mad.... Was that fancy again?—that noise outside? And there ... her door was opening very softly. No, she was not mad. It was really moving. With straining eyes she watched.... A dark form filled the doorway, and a man’s figure slipped into the room. She stifled a scream of terror.

Her chamber was lit by a small night-lamp turned very low, but she knew only too well that large yellow, hairless face. Popol! This was another of these evil dreams. Then she heard him speak.

“Well, my pretty one, at last.”

He looked at her, his face full of gloating triumph. He locked the door, and gave a chuckling laugh.

“Now I’ve got you, my chicken. Ha! Ha! no one gets away from Popol. He’s sure, is Popol. Once he gets on the trail he never gives up. It’s been a long trail, my beauty, but now....”

Suddenly his voice grew thick with fury.

“Now I’ll teach you who’s your master. You’ll be glad to kiss my dirty boots before I’ve done with you. Ah, you needn’t squeal for help. No one will hear you; I’ve planned well. I have taken the room next to yours. Been there since Saturday. There are no other neighbours, and the people in the flat below are in the country. You are absolutely at my mercy,—in my power.”

He was in no hurry. From behind his ear he took a cigarette and lit it at the little night-lamp. The girl watched him, fascinated as a bird is by a snake. He enjoyed her terror, and prolonged it. Then passion seized him. He gripped her by the arm. At last she found her voice.

“No, no,” she gasped. “Spare me. Have pity. I will give you all the money I have. Here! Take this!”

From under her pillow she drew her purse and thrust it at him. He snatched it with a laugh, looked inside, and put it carefully in his pocket.

“That’s all right,” he jeered; “I expect you’ll make lots more for me in days to come. Yes, I’ll have your money, and, by God, I’ll have you too....”

With a leap he had her in his powerful grip and the struggle began. He held her arms so that she could not move them, and pressed his coarse lips to her face. At their touch madness seized her. She bit fiercely into the flabby fold of his cheek. With a snarl of pain he released her.

“You little devil, I’ll kill you for this.”

Once more he sprang at her, held her down. She felt her strength leave her. She could resist no more. She was fainting.... Then suddenly she remembered....

“Stop!” she cried; “Stop for your own sake! Can’t you see I’m ill? Can’t you see what is the matter?”

Something in her voice arrested him. He drew back. There was a long tense pause. Slowly he turned up the light. Then ... he grew limp with terror. He looked closely and shrank back.

“No, no,” he gasped hoarsely. “Not that?”

“Yes, that!” she screamed. “And now you’ll have it too. Oh, brute, brute! You can kill me if you like. I have had my revenge. They’re coming with the ambulance, coming even now. You hear, it’s the smallpox, you dog! The smallpox....”

But Popol did not want to kill her. Gazing at her with horror-stricken eyes he backed to the door.

“Yes,” she exulted, “You can kiss me now. It will make more sure, or rather see.... I am coming to kiss you.”

She made a move as if to rise and follow him but he did not wait. He reeled through the door, pulling it to behind him. She heard him stumbling down the dark narrow stairs, blubbering like a child.

“Oh, it’s awful,” he cried. “I can’t stand it. I’m not a sound man. It will kill me. It will kill me.”

And Popol was right. It did.

CHAPTER FIVE
PHANTOM FORTUNE

1.

AS she shrank back into the remote corner of the first class compartment, Margot sighed profoundly. She had been thinking of the strange events of the past month and of the bewildering turn in her fortunes.

When she had been released from the hospital, some three months before, she was still very weak. During her illness a religious sisterhood had nursed her with devotion; a famous physician had personally attended her; a great Institute had exhausted its skill in her behalf. She was a record case, they said,—not a trace of the disease showed. She wanted to return to Folette’s and begin work at once, but Madame would not hear of it. “No, my dear, you’re too shaky. You need a good long rest in the country, two months at least. If you have no money I will lend you some.”

So Margot borrowed five hundred francs and went to Barbizon. There in a cottage on the edge of the forest, she slowly regained her strength. Then she returned to Paris.

One afternoon, a few days before she had arranged to return to the modiste’s, she decided she would like to visit the grave of the Mère Tranquille. Once more she sought the little bar on the Rue du Belville. As she entered she had a curious feeling that she had never been away; the fat red-faced man was still reading a paper behind the zinc counter. When she asked where her old friend was buried, he put down his paper and stared at her.

“You don’t happen to be the girl who worked here?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Margot Leblanc?”

“The same, I assure you.”

The fat man brought down his fist with a thump on the counter.

“Sapristi! Why, every one thinks you are dead. The lawyers sought you high and low; you seemed to have vanished off the earth. Didn’t you know the old woman left you a heritage?”

“No. Is it true?”

“Assuredly. Not much; but to a girl like you, it will be very welcome. Here, I’ll give you the address of the lawyers and you can go and see them at once.”

She lost no time. The result was that in due course she received her legacy. After settling all expenses and paying every debt, she found herself the possessor of a little over three thousand francs. Never before had she owned anything like such an amount. To her it seemed riches. At first she thought she would carry out her plan of taking a little shop with Jeanne. But the winter was coming on, the cold, grey, cruel winter; time enough for the little shop in the spring. A sudden distaste for Paris possessed her. Then one day as she was passing the window of a tourist agency she stopped to stare at a vivid poster depicting a sea of turquoise blue, a terraced town that seemed carved from ivory, a background of amethystine mountain, palms, pigeons, gorgeous flowers. Underneath was the name—Monte Carlo. It came like an inspiration; she would go there. With a sense of great daring she packed her basket-valise, said good-bye to Madame Folette and Jeanne, and took the train.

2.

As she sat alone in the corner of her compartment, these events passed through her mind and she sighed deeply. She felt very lonely, rather frightened. She blamed herself for having bought a first class ticket at Marseilles, but the journey in the crowded second class from Paris had so fatigued her that she had decided to be extravagant.

Even in her jaded state the scenery seemed to her to be of dreamlike beauty. It was not until Nice had been reached that its too exorbitant claims on her admiration began to weary her. They must be very close now. It was long, that journey, especially when one has been so ill. She must tidy up a bit. She rose and began to arrange her hair, that stupid hair of which she had so much. It tumbled turbulently down and she had to take out all her hair-pins and let it fall around her like a golden shower. As she looked up apprehensively, she saw a young man staring at her from the corridor. She was vexed. She caught the mutinous tresses hurriedly and bunched them around her head. When she had finished with her pins and combs, she looked around again. The young man had gone.

She liked the Pension which had been recommended to her, because every one left her alone. The first day she gave to exploring the gardens and getting her bearings; the second she presented herself at the Casino and asked for a card. Fortunately, she had been warned that on no account must she divulge the fact that she worked. It is significant that a woman who earns her living honestly is refused admission to the Casino while a prostitute is welcomed. The administration knows that the small wage-earner brings little grist to their mill, while the demi-mondaine plays their game. Margot filled in her application with the usual phrase: “Sans occupation.”

Although she had made up her mind to gamble she was more than prudent. For the first week she did nothing but watch the tables with concentrated attention; then she bought a note-book with shiny covers and began to take down numbers. She would stand by a table for two or three hours, until her column of figures was quite a long one. Then, finding a quiet seat in the Café de Paris, she would sip a cup of chocolate and study them. She felt encouraged by the fact that a number of women, with negligible capital, were undoubtedly making a living at the Casino. Shabby, anxious creatures she saw them hovering like hawks over the tables, waiting to get in on “a safe thing,” and going away finally with a few pieces of gain. They had lived thus for years.

“Surely,” she thought, “with two thousand francs of capital, I can win a louis a day.”

The next step was to make up her mind how she would play. She must adopt a method, and concentrate on it. After long reflection she decided that the most cautious way of playing was to stake on two of the three dozens. In this way she would only have one dozen against her. From the examination of her figures, and the columns of permanencies published in a paper whose colour was the green of hope, she found that the first dozen seemed to come a little less frequently than the other two, and that it had a greater tendency to repeat. Here was a hint for her. She would wait until the first dozen had asserted itself strongly, then, as it were, retired exhausted. She would put five francs on the second and five francs on the third dozen. She would be covering thus twenty-four of the thirty-six numbers. If either of her two dozens won, she would receive fifteen francs, a gain of five francs. As soon as she had won four times, and had made a louis, she would stop. She furthermore decided that she would always play a flat stake, and would never make a progression. In the long run a progression was always fatal. If she lost a louis on any one day, she would stop for that day and not court disaster by trying to retrieve her losses.

As she pressed through the crowd and put her first stake on the table, she felt her heart beat wildly. She thought every one was watching her.

“Here is a new one,” she imagined them saying. “Another poor little chicken come to be plucked. Look how her hand trembles as she puts her two white counters on the table. One would imagine she was playing for thousands.”

But after all every one was absorbed in the game, and no one paid any attention to her. The ball spun around. She had won.

“Ah!” she thought, “it is always specially arranged that the beginner wins.”

And she played again with more confidence. The player has the advantage over the bank in that he may select his moment of play. (Unfortunately he generally selects the wrong moment.) Margot waited for what seemed to her a favourable moment and staked again. Again she won. Her second and third coups were equally successful. She was strangely elated, far more so than the extent of her gain really warranted. She had been excited and anxious before, now a happy reaction set in. She changed the white counters she had gained for a twenty franc bill, which she regarded with a rare pleasure. How strange to make money so easily! Playing as prudently as this it did not seem possible to lose. Just think! if she had only played with louis-stakes instead of five franc ones.... Or even with hundred franc placques.... A sudden vision of fortune dazzled her. “If....” Ah! that pregnant “if” that gamblers use in victory and defeat. The tragedy of that “if.” The virus was already in her veins, and she went home to dream of whirring roulette wheels and the smiles of fortune.

She awaited the second day with a passion of eagerness. But alas! things did not go so well. When she had made three wins she had a loss. With chagrin she watched her two pieces swept away. She was now only one ahead. She won her next three coups, however, and retired with her louis of gain.

The third day she had a hard fight. It was as if the Casino had said: “Tut! Tut! we must not let this slip of a girl get our money so easily. We must begin to baulk her a bit.”

She played all morning and afternoon, winning and losing, and winning again. Try as she would, she could not get them to give her a louis. At seven o’clock she retired from the fight, only a poor five francs the winner. She was fearfully tired, her head ached, and the smile of fortune seemed transformed into the wryest of grins.

The fourth day she had no trouble and her confidence came back. But the fifth ... the first dozen came up seven times running and broke to the third. By all the laws of average it was due to rest a bit and allow the equilibrium to establish itself. It was, therefore, with a confidence almost insolent, that the girl staked on the second and third dozen. She was so sure of winning that she felt as if the money were already in her hands, and did not even wait to watch the spinning wheel. She had reached down to secure her winnings when to her surprise she saw both her stakes being raked in. The number two had declared itself.

Next time it would come right, and again she staked on the second and third dozen. She waited almost listlessly. To her dismay she saw her stakes swept off a second time. There must be a mistake.... No, the ball was resting in the slot marked twelve.

She sat down on one of the leather-padded lounges. It was not the money she had lost that worried her, but the fact that her system had proven untrustworthy. She hated to be beaten like that. A mixture of resentment and anger dominated her,—a mood most dangerous to a gambler. She rose, and going back to the table put one louis on the second dozen and another on the third. She won. She had regained all that she had lost.

She did not play any more that day. She went to the Café de Paris, and, having ordered a jug of chocolate, sat down to think. It was evident that to gain four straight wins every day, was too great a strain on her system. Well, then, instead of playing four coups with five francs each time, why not play a single coup with a louis for the stake? In this way she would not tire herself out with long play, nor exhaust her luck. Accordingly the next day she began playing on these lines.

For a time all went well. She found that with average luck she won three times out of four. Then a spell of bad luck set in, and in spite of the care with which she played she found her gains were reduced to two out of three. This left her no profit. She must do something to raise her average. She thought the matter over. If she had to have a certain proportion of losses, why not let them be fictitious ones? Why not let her losses be made with imaginary stakes and her gains with real ones? She made up her mind that, playing with her usual care, she would wait until she had lost twice in her head, before playing on the table a third time for a win. It needed lots of patience; often she had to wait for two hours before her chance came, but with this method she won three times out of four. However to develop a system in theory and put it into practice are two very different things. To play a system one must be as emotionless as a machine; systems make no allowance for human passion and impulse, and this she soon found to her cost.

It happened one day that, when she went to the Rooms in the afternoon, she staked as usual a louis on the second and another on the third dozen, after having watched the wheel for awhile. The number eleven came up. Now according to her system she should have called her day a loss and gone home. But on this particular afternoon her mood was mutinous. She determined to try again. She re-staked in the same fashion, and the eleven repeated. She was furious with herself for being so weak and foolish. It would take her four days to regain her losses. It was too tedious, too discouraging. Well, it could not be helped now. She walked to the door, but just as she reached it she hesitated. Her irritation grew. No, she would not let them beat her. Going back to the table she fumbled in her bag and drew forth two notes of a hundred francs each. She handed them to the croupier.

“Second and third dozen, please.”

She was strangely calm now, but she could not bear to see the ball spin. She turned and went to another table, pretending to watch the play there. She forbade herself to look back, then when she heard the ball drop, she glanced round. The croupiers were cleaning up the tables, but the rake swung clear of the hundred francs she had put on the middle dozen. She had won.

Again she snatched victory from defeat. She had retrieved her losses and had a louis to boot. But strange to say she felt no elation. She had been reckless and risked two hundred francs. It must not happen again, she told herself.

It was soon evident that if her average wins were three out of four, with a stake of two louis, and she made only one coup, her gains would only aggregate five francs a day. That would never do. After much reflection and analysis of her figures, she decided to play with placques of a hundred francs each. In this way she would gain a hundred francs every four days; and even, if she allowed five francs for a possible zero every time she played, she would still make her louis a day. This was the plan she finally adopted. Her system, in short, was to play only a flat stake, never a progression. She played only one coup a day, stopping if she lost, and took two fictitious losses before actually playing on the table. She played a hundred francs on the second, and a hundred francs on the third dozen after an exhausted run of the first dozen. She put five francs on zero.

It was very much like hard work, and needed both patience and judgment, but it was possible for her to go on playing this system for six months without mishap, and in the end just about even up.

3.

One day as she was eating a hurried luncheon she noticed a young man reading by the window. His hair was ash blonde, brushed glossily back, his face thin, sensitive, and browned by the sun. When he smiled at Terese, the waitress, his teeth were milk-white, and very regular. His eyes should have been blue, but were of a dark, velvety brown. An extraordinary good-looking boy, she thought, with an air of refinement, of race. He looked up and caught her eye; immediately she looked down.

She had seen him before, she fancied, but where? Then she remembered the young man who had stared at her in the train. It was strange she should meet him again.

She saw him often afterwards in the gardens, walking hatless, with his head held high. He never went to the Casino, and seemed very gay and happy. It was easy to see he was well off, and had not a care in the world. Once he passed her as she was on her way to her room, but shyness came over her and she did not glance at him. He looked so proud; he must be at least the son of an English lord. Why then should she, daughter of a French head-waiter and an English bar-maid, be even on bowing terms with him?

Then something happened that quite drove him out of her thoughts. For ten days she had been playing her system without even a loss, gaining nearly a thousand francs. Her winnings so far had more than paid her modest expenses. When she entered the Casino on Christmas morning she had four bills of a thousand francs each in her bag. She had also a letter from Jeanne. Jeanne knew of such a nice little shop on the Boulevard Raspail. It would be empty by the January term and, if Margot was willing, they would each put in two thousand francs and take it. Jeanne wanted an answer at once. Margot was very happy. She would tell Jeanne to take the shop, and she herself would return to Paris shortly after the beginning of the new year. She was sorry to think of leaving Monte Carlo, and to give up roulette; the keen shifts and stresses of the game intrigued her and she loved that moment of emotion just before the ball dropped. Then the thought came to her: Why not experience a moment of more intense emotion than she had ever known? She had a thousand francs of the bank’s money that she did not absolutely need. Why not risk it? If she could win with bills of a hundred, why not with notes of a thousand? She watched the table until the opportunity came. She placed five hundred francs on the second dozen, and five hundred on the third, then with an air of unconcern fell to regarding one of the pictures on the wall. It was a painting of Watteau-like delicacy, representing autumn; falling leaves, gallants and ladies of the court....

“Rien ne va plus.”

Would the ball never drop? She heard it knocking about among the diamond-shaped brass projections. Then silence, and ... zero.

Oh, what a fool she had been! For the first time in weeks she had forgotten to cover zero. And for the first time in weeks she had encountered it. She hated the calm croupier who raked in her thousand francs. There was something so ruthless, so inexorable in the way he did it. A dull rage filled her. She seemed to be impelled by something stronger than herself. She took from her bag a second note of a thousand francs and played it as before. No, she would not stake on zero. The chances of it repeating were a thousand to one.... Zero! again!

It could not be possible! As she saw another thousand swept away she felt physically sick. She sat down on a lounge, dazed, stunned. The impassive croupiers seemed suddenly to become mocking satyrs, the great guilded hall, pitiless, cruel. She watched a little hunch-backed croupier spin the wheel by its brass handle; he flipped the ivory sphere in the other direction in a careless, casual manner. The girl started up. It was as if she were an automaton, moved by some force outside of her will. Taking a third thousand franc bill from her bag, she staked it in the same way as before. No use to stake on zero this time. The chance of its coming up a third time was a million to one. She saw the ball go scuttling among the brass knobs; she heard a great murmur from the gazing crowd; all eyes turned admiringly to the little hunchback who tried to look as if he had done it on purpose.... ZERO!

She walked away. A bitter recklessness had seized her. She took out her remaining thousand franc bill. She would risk it anywhere, anyhow. A red haired man was coming in at the door. That was an inspiration. She would play on the red and leave it for a paroli. She went over to the nearest croupier and handed him her bill.

“Rouge, please.”

But the croupier misunderstood. He put the bill on black, looking at her for approval. After all, what did it matter? Let it remain on black. She nodded and black it was. Once more the ball whizzed dizzily round and dropped into its slot. Rouge.

She had lost. In less than four minutes she had lost four thousand francs. She pulled down her veil and walked out of the gambling rooms. Her legs were weak under her and she felt faint. She sat down on a bench in the atrium. It could not be true! She must have dreamt it. She opened her hand-bag of shabby black leather and searched feverishly. All she found was about thirty francs.

She was broke.

CHAPTER SIX
DERELICT

1.

THEN began the great struggle of Margot Leblanc to regain the money she had lost. It was a pitiable, pathetic struggle, full of desperate hope. Starting with ten francs, she sought to win back the two thousand needed to buy the shop with Jeanne. She kept her room at the pension, but gave up taking her meals there. Instead she had a cup of coffee and a roll in a cheap café in the Condamine. She would do without sleep, she told herself; she would be shabby and shiver with cold ... but she would win back that money!

Every morning she took her place among that weird and shabby mob of women who storm the Casino doors at opening time, and scramble for places at the tables, hoping to sell them in the afternoon to some prosperous player. The Casino, which had been the cause of their ruin, lets them thus eke out a miserable existence. Threadbare creatures with vulturish faces, they hang over the tables, quick-clawed to clutch up the stakes of the unwary.

Margot was glad of every opportunity to make a little money by selling her place. It meant the price of a square meal: spaghetti, and salad and cheese, in a cheap Italian restaurant in Beausoleil. Otherwise, when an increasing dizziness warned her that she had not yet broken her fast, she had to seek a quiet corner of the gardens, and lunch on a bit of chocolate and some bread. Then she would hurry back to the Casino, fearful that in her absence a chance had come up to make a few francs.

It was a weary, anxious existence. Sometimes indeed she got down to her last five francs before a sudden turn of luck exalted her again to the heights of hope. The effect on her nerves was terrible. Her nights became haunted. Roulette wheels whirled before her closed eyes and she often dreamed of a mighty one that turned into a great whirlpool, in which she and all the other players were spinning around helplessly. And always, just as she was being sucked down into the vortex, she awoke.

2.

One evening as she sat in a corner of the gardens, silent and absorbed, a man approached her. He was dark and weedy, and his eyebrows twitched up and down continually. She recognized him as one of her fellow-lodgers at the pension, and she had heard him addressed as Monsieur Martel. After looking sharply at her, he took a seat by her side.

“Had any luck lately?” he asked with that freemasonry of gamblers that permits of a promiscuous conversation.

Silently she shook her head.

He lighted a cigarette. “It’s a cruel game,” he observed. “God help the poor pikers who haven’t enough capital to defend themselves. I had a hard fight to-day. I was obliged to play a martingale up to five thousand francs, all to win a wretched louis. But I got out all right. I imagine you have not been very successful yourself lately. I have seen you losing.”

She nodded. He drew comfortably nearer.

“Well, that’s too bad. By the way, if I can be of any help to you, give you any advice.... I have a considerable knowledge of the game....”

She laughed bitterly. “I, too, Monsieur, have a considerable knowledge of the game. But there ... that is all the capital I have in the world, ten francs.”

She held out two white chips in her shabby, gloved hand. He noted the smallness of the hand, and the glimpse of milk-white wrist between the glove and the threadbare jacket. He drew nearer still.

“Ah! it’s hopeless,” he said, “when one gets down so low. Why not let me make you a loan? I shall never miss it. You can repay me out of your winnings. Let me lend you a trifle, say five hundred.”

She looked at him steadily for a moment. “But I have no security to give you,” she said at last.

He laughed easily. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. Of course, we are speaking as one Monte Carloite to another. We understand each other. If I am nice to you, you will be nice to me. My room at the pension is number fourteen. If you come down and see me this evening I have no doubt we can arrange matters.”

She rose. In the shadow he could not see the loathing in her eyes. These men ... they were all alike. Beasts! She left him without a word.

He waited in his room that night, wondering if she would come. She did not. He went off to the Casino laughing comfortably. Life was a great game.

“If it isn’t to-night,” he said to himself, “it will be to-morrow or the day after. A little more hunger, a little more despair. I have but to wait. She will come to me. If she doesn’t, what matter? There are lots of others.”

3.

Some days later she sat in her room staring at her face in the cheap mirror. There were dark circles around her weary eyes. Her cheeks were thinned to pathetic hollows, her mouth drooped with despair and defeat. The Casino had beaten her. She was sick, weak, nervously unstrung. Try as she would she could not get back her old healthy view of life; that was the worst of it. Gambling had poisoned the very blood in her veins.

She had no money to take her back to Paris, even if she were willing to go, and she felt she would rather die than write and ask for help. Then to take up the burden of labour again, the life of struggle without hope and with misery to crown it all, ... Ah! she knew it so well. She had seen too many of her comrades fight and fall. Must she too work as they worked, until her strength was exhausted and she perished in poverty?

There was death, of course! Only last week a young girl, after pawning all her trinkets, shot herself under the railway bridge. She would do better than that; she had some little white powders.

Then there was the compromise. Why not? Who under the circumstances would dare to tell her that death was better than dishonour? And yet ... she hated to think of doing it. She preferred to steal. Funny, wasn’t it? Her sense of morality was curious. She would rather be a thief than a harlot.

But she had no chance to be a thief. It would have to be the other thing. Rising she put rouge on her ghastly cheeks then rubbed it off again. No, not just yet! She would ask the young man for the five hundred francs. If he demanded the quid pro quo she would beg him to wait until to-morrow. Then she would go to the Casino and risk all. If she won she would return him his money, and say she had changed her mind. If she lost ... well, there was the white powder....

She would ask him at once. How dark and silent the house was. Room fourteen was on the floor below. Softly she crept down the shabby stairs. She had to put on her cloak; she shivered so.

That was his door. She hesitated, inclined to turn back. Perhaps he had gone out. Her heart was beating horribly and the hand she put out trembled. She knocked. There was no answer. Softly she tried the handle of the door.

END OF BOOK ONE

BOOK TWO
The Story of Hugh

CHAPTER ONE
THE UNHAPPIEST LAD IN LONDON

1.

THE woman he used to call aunty kept a rooming house on Balmoral Circus, and the boy’s earliest memories were of domestic drudgery. He cleaned boots until nearly midnight, smudging with grimy knuckles his sleepy eyes. He slept in a cupboard at the rear of the hall, along with dirty brushes, smelly dusters and lymphatic cock-roaches. As he grew taller he learned to make beds and to take care of the rooms. Aunty nagged at him continually and he had to dodge occasional blows.

She was an unwieldy woman with a tart tongue and tight varnished hair. Every afternoon she would put on a battered bonnet and go forth for what she called “a breff of fresh air.” She would return about five, smelling of gin and very affable. He preferred her cuffs to her kisses.

Uncle would come home at a quarter past six. He was a French-cleaner, a monosyllabic man who loved his pipe. One evening he broke his stoic silence.

“Missis, it’s time that boy ’ad some schoolin’.”

“Schoolin’! the ideer! And tell me ’oo’s goin’ to do the work of this ’ouse while he’s wastin’ ’is time over a lot o’ useless ’istry an’ jography?”

“I tell you, missis, he’s got to have some eddication. He’s goin’ on for nine now and knows next to nothin’.”

“Well, you know wot it means. It means payin’ some lazy slut of a ’ouse-maid sixteen bob a month.”

“Well, and why can’t you pay it out of that five ’undred pounds ’is mother gave you to look after ’im?”

“’Eaven ’ear the man! And ’aven’t I looked after ’im? ’Aven’t I earned all she gave me? ’Aven’t I bin a second muvver to ’im? Didn’t I nurse ’er like a sister, and ’er dyin’ of consumption? There ain’t many ’as would ’ave done wot I did.”

The difficulty of his education, however, was solved by the second-floor back, Miss Pingley, who undertook to give him lessons for two hours every day. She was the cousin of a clergyman and excessively genteel, so that his manners improved under her care.

Once he began to read his imagination was awakened. More than ever he hated the sordid life around him. He began to think seriously of running away, and would no doubt have done so, had not Uncle again intervened. One evening the silent man laid down his pipe.

“I’ve got a job for the boy, Missis. He begins work on Monday.”

“Wot!”

“I say get a gel for the work. That lad’s goin’ into business on Monday.”

“Well, I never!”

“Yes, Gummage and Meek, the cheese people. You ’ear, Hugh?”

“Yes, Uncle. Thank you, Uncle.”

Aunty began to make a fuss, but Uncle promptly told her to shut up. As for the boy the thought of getting away from dust pans and slop pails was like heaven to him; so the following Monday, with beating heart, he presented himself at the office of Gummage and Meek.

2.

Mr. Ainger, the cashier, sat on his high stool, and looked down at a slim lad, twisting a shabby cap. Mr. Ainger was a tall man of about fifty, his hair grey, his face fine and distinguished. It was said that in his spare time he wrote.

“Well, my boy,” he said kindly, “what do you call yourself?”

“Hugh Kildair.”

The gaze of Mr. Ainger became interested. He noted the dark eyes that contrasted so effectively with the light wavy hair, the sensitive features, the fine face stamped with race. Centuries of selection, he thought, had gone to the making of that face.

“A romantic name. So, my boy, you are making a start with us. I don’t know that it’s what you would choose if you had any say in the matter. Probably, you’d rather have been a corsair or a cowboy. I know I would at your age. However, very few of us are lucky enough to do the things we’d like to do. Life’s a rotten muddle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, my young friend, I do not know if the horizon of your ambition is bounded by cheese, if it inspires you with passion, with enthusiasm. Still you might have made a worse choice. You might have been in oils and varnishes, for instance, or soap. Imagine handling those compared with that exquisite ivory curd—transmuted by bovine magic from the dew and daisies of the field. I tell you there’s romance in cheese; there’s even poetry. I’m sure a most charming book could be written about it. Pardon me, but you’re not by any chance thinking of writing a book about cheese, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. Now I think of it I might as well do it myself,—a whimsical Belloc-sort of book with glimpses of many lands. But there. Let us return to the subject of your future. All I can say is: Do your best; we’ll do the rest. Now go; and believe me, our discriminating gaze is upon you.”

In the years that followed, although he saw little of Mr. Ainger, he was conscious of a protective and sympathetic eye. As for the work he did not dislike it. It was pleasant in the cool gloom of the warehouse where cheeses of all shapes and colours made strange lights and shadows. He had more liberty too, than he would have had in the office. He was able to make pen and ink sketches of his companions in his spare moments. At the end of every month he handed over his pay to Aunty who returned him a trifle for pocket-money.

At the beginning of his fifth year his salary was raised to fifty pounds. On the day he received his first instalment he did not return to Balmoral Circus. Instead he went to a small room in Hammersmith, carrying his few belongings in a cricket bag. He then wrote to Aunty, saying he was “on his own,” and he would never see her again.

At last, at last he was free.

3.

How hard that first winter was! Fifty pounds went much further in those days than it does now, but even then he had to go without many needful things. An overcoat, for one. You can picture him a tall, thin pale youth, with a woollen comforter and a shabby suit far too small for him. He was often cold and hungry. A cough bothered him.

One day Mr. Ainger came down to see him.

“Hullo, young man. You haven’t written that book yet?”

“No, sir.”

“I am surprised. Assailed as you are by a dozen pungent odours do you not realize that under the cork-trees of Corsica the goats browse on the wild thyme in order that those shelves may be replenished with green veined Roquefort; that cattle bells jingle in the high vivid valleys of the Jura to make for us those grind-stone like masses of cavernous Gruyère; sitting here are you not conscious of a rhythm running through it all, of a dignity, even of an epic—cheese?”

“Well,” he went on, “I’ve come to hale you from all this source of inspiration to a more sordid environment. There’s a spare stool in the counting-house I think you might ornament.”

“I’ll be glad of a change, sir.”

“Good. By the way, where are you living?”

“Hammersmith, sir.”

“Ah, indeed, I have a cottage on the river. You must come and see me.”

A fortnight later he took Hugh to his little villa. It was the only real home the lad had even seen, and was a revelation to him. Mrs. Ainger was the first sweet woman he had ever met, and he immediately worshipped her. There were two fine boys and a most fascinating library.

The Aingers had a great influence on Hugh’s development. Through them he met a number of nice fellows and instinctively picked up their manners. He played football, cricket, and tennis,—at which games he was swift and graceful, but somewhat lacking in stamina. He studied French, and Mr. Ainger was at great pains to see that he had a good accent. But best of all, he was able to attend an art school in the evenings and satisfy a growing passion for painting.

Then the war broke out. He went to France with the First Hundred Thousand. In the wet and cold of the trenches he contracted pneumonia and his recovery was slow. As soon as he was well again, he was transferred to the transport service and drove a camion in the last great struggle. When he was demobilized he returned to the office at a comfortable salary.

Everything looked well now, everything but his health. He suffered from a chronic cold and was nearly always tired.

Then one raw day in early Spring he saw a poor woman throw her child over the Embankment.

“She was quite close to me,” he told Mr. Ainger afterwards, “so of course I went in. It was instinctive. Any other chap would have done the same.

“Well, I grabbed the kid and the kid grabbed me, and there I was treading water desperately. But it was hard to keep afloat; and I thought we must both go down. I remember I felt sorry for the little beast. I didn’t care a hang for myself. Then just as I was about to give up, they lifted us into a boat. There was a crowd and cheering, but I was too sick to care. Some one took me home in a taxi and my landlady put me to bed.”

The chill that resulted affected his lungs. All winter he had fits of coughing that made him faint from sheer exhaustion. He awoke at night bathed in cold sweat. In the morning he was ghastly, and rose only by a dogged effort. One forenoon, after a hard fit of coughing Mr. Ainger said to him:

“Cold doesn’t seem to improve.”

“No, sir.”

“By the way, ever had any lung trouble in your family?”

“Yes, sir. My mother, I’ve been told, died of it.”

“Look here, take the afternoon off and see our doctor.”

The doctor was a little bald, rosy man. He looked up at Hugh’s nigh six feet of gaunt weariness.

“You’re not fit to be out, sir. Go home at once. I’ll see you there.”

So Hugh went to his bed, and remained in it all summer.

4.

One day in late October he lay on his bed staring drearily at the soiled ceiling, and wondering if in all London there was a lad more unhappy than he.

“A lunger,” he thought bitterly. “Rotten timber! A burden to myself and others. Soon I must take up the fight again and I’m tired, tired. I want to rest, do nothing for a year or two. Well, I won’t give in. I’ll put up a good scrap yet. I’ll——”

Here a knock came at the door. It was the little doctor cheery and twinkling.

“Hullo! How’s the health to-day?”

“Better, doctor; I’ll soon be able to go back to the office.”

The doctor laughed: “If you remain in London another six months you’ll be a dead man.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Go away. Live in a warm climate. Egypt, Algeria, the Riviera.”

“And if I go away how long will I live?”

“Oh, probably sixty years.”

“Quite a difference. Well, doctor, I expect I’ll have to stick it out here. You see, I’ve no money, no friends. Even now I’m living on the charity of the firm. They’ve been awfully decent, but I can’t expect them to go on much longer.”

“Have you no relatives?”

“None that I know of. I’m absolutely alone in the world.”

“Well, well! We’ll see about it. Surely something can be done. Don’t get down-hearted. Everything will come out all right.”

The little doctor went away, and Hugh continued to stare at the soiled ceiling. There came to him a desperate vision of palms and sunshine. But that was not for him. He must stay in this raw bleak London and perish as many a young chap had perished....

Next morning came another knock at the door. It was Mr. Ainger.

“Well, my lad, how are you feeling?”

“A little better. I hope I’ll soon be able to get back to my ledger.”

“Nonsense, my boy! You’ll never come back. You’re expected to hand in your resignation. The doctor holds out no hope. You can’t go on drawing on your salary indefinitely.”

Hugh swallowed hard. “No, that’s right. You’ve treated me square. I can’t complain.”

“Complain, I should say not; look here....”

With that Mr. Ainger took from his pocket a sheaf of crisp Bank of England notes and began to spread them out on the bed.

“Twelve of them. Ten pounds each. All yours. We collected sixty pounds in the office and the firm doubled it. And now you’re going to eternal sunshine, to blue skies, to a land where people are merry and sing the whole day long. You’ve escaped the slimy clutch of commerce. Gad! I envy you!”

“Do you really, sir?”

“Yes. I wanted to live in Italy, Greece, Spain; to roam, to be a vagabond, to be free. But I married, had children, became a slave chained to the oar. One thing though,—my boys will never be square pegs in round holes. They’ll have the chance I never had.”

“Perhaps it’s not too late.”

“No, perhaps not. Perhaps some day I’ll join you down there. Perhaps when I get things settled, I’ll live under those careless skies where living is rapture. I’ll get back by own soul. I’ll write that book, I’ve tried all my life to write. Perhaps ... it’s my dream, my dream....”

Mr. Ainger turned abruptly and went out, leaving Hugh staring incredulously at the counterpane of notes that covered his bed.

CHAPTER TWO
THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

1.

PINES packed the vast valley, climbing raggedly to the pale grey peaks. Sometimes the mountains swooped down in gulch and butte of fantastic beauty. The pines were pale green in the sunshine, the soil strangely red. There was a curious dryness, a hard brilliance about it all.

As Hugh looked from the train window he had a feeling of home-coming. It was as if his ancestors had lived in this land; as if in no other could he thrive so well.

“I’m feeling heaps better,” he thought. “Only let me get six months in these jolly old pine forests, living like a wood-cutter. The life of nature, that’s what I need to make a new man of me. Ah! this is my country. I’m here now; and here I’ll stay.”

Looking at that sky so invincibly blue, that soil so subjugated by the sun, it seemed hard to believe that elsewhere there could be fog and cold and sleet. Here the sunshine was of so conquering a quality, it was difficult to think of sullen lands that could resist it.

Again Hugh felt that sense of familiarity: “I’m a son of the sun,” he exulted; “a child of the sun-land.”

So absorbed was he that a rasping voice at his side almost startled him.

“The verdure here is profligate, ain’t it?”

The speaker was a rusty, creaky man smoking a rank cigar. He had a bony nose, and a ragged moustache. He wore a dusty bowler hat and a coat with a collar of hard-bitten musk-rat.

“The pines do seem to thrive,” said Hugh.

“Pines is very tendatious,” observed the shabby man. “Very saloobrious too.”

“Indeed,” said Hugh. “Are you a health-seeker?”

“No, sir. Not ’ealth,—wealth. I’m a man with a system, I am. The finest system on the Riviera.”

“I wish mine was. It’s rather dicky.”

“Oh, I wasn’t referrin’ to my corporationus system. It’s my system at roulette. Allow me....”

He handed Hugh a rather soiled card on which was engraved:

Professor Robert Bender,
roulette expert,
inventor of bender’s voisin system
Author of “How to live at the Cost of the Casino.”

“Yes,” supplemented the shabby man importantly. “You see before you one of the greatest livin’ authorities on roulette. I’ve studied it now for twenty years. They all consult old Bob. Many a gentleman I’ve ’elped to fortune. ’Avin’ no capital myself, I’m obliged to let others ’ave the benefit of my experience.”

“And your system?” queried Hugh politely.

“Well, sir, it’s based on the fact that the old croupiers ’ave a ’abit of throwin’ the ball in a hotomatic way, so that they ’ave spells when they throw into the same section of the wheel. Of course, it calls for judgment and observation.”

“Luck, too, I should imagine.”

“Not so much. Luck is a thing we scientific roulette players try not to recognize. We aim to beat chance by calculation.”

“Is it really true,” said Hugh, “that one can live at the cost of the Casino?”

“Certainly. Thousands are doin’ it this very day. Why, I can go in any time and make a couple of louis.”

“I wish I could.”

“So you can, sir, with a little experience. You’re goin’ to Monte?”

“No, Menton.”

“Ah, that’s a pity. Mentony’s too full of English, too deadly dull. Monte’s a sporty little gem, the most beautiful spot on earth—and the wickedest.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Interestin’ ... I should say so. There’s no square mile on God’s globe so packed with drama. There’s no theatre a patch on that Casino. You’d better get off at Monte, sir, and let me put you on to my system. Sixteen hundred francs capital is all you need, and I guarantees you a daily profit of from twenty to eighty per cent.”

Hugh thought of the poor two thousand francs that was to last him for six months.

“I’ll think over it. Meantime I’ve arranged to go to Menton.”

“Well, we’ll surely see you at the tables before long. By the way, sir, you see that gentleman with the white spats? He’s a English gentleman, a Mister Jarvie Tope. Very nice man, but he’s got a system that’s no good. Don’t let him fool you with it.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh, “I’ll be careful.”

The pine-lands had given way to vinelands, the peaks to plains. The vines pushed jagged forks through the red soil; the olive groves wimpled in the wind. The goats and donkeys scarcely raised their heads to gaze at the insolent train. Hugh was in such a deep reverie that he did not notice the approach of Mr. Jarvie Tope.

Mr. Tope was a little rosy man, round and bland with waxed grey moustaches. He was well groomed, and seemed on the most excellent terms with life.

“Ha, ha!” he squeaked as he drew near to Hugh, “Old Bob Bender’s been warning you against me, I could see it in his eye, the rascal. Told you, no doubt, I’d try to put you on to my system. Couldn’t, if I would. I’ve come over to play for a syndicate.”

“Indeed. What sort of a system is yours?”

“Well, it’s based on the idea that the same phenomenon cannot occur on the same spot at the same moment to-day that it occurred at the same spot on the same day last year. I have my phenomena carefully recorded and when the times comes I bet on them. The probabilities are millions in my favour.”

“There seems to be a lot of systems.”

“No end of ’em. We all think ours is the best and the other fellows’ no good. With a bit of luck all are good, but you need a lot of capital to defend yourself, and you must be content with a very moderate return. And after all none are infallible. That’s what we’re all seeking, a formula that’s infallible. So far no one has found it, but still we seek and hope.... You see that old fellow at the end of the corridor?”

“The venerable old chap with the white beard?”

“Yes, I call him Walt Whitman. Well, he’s a man over seventy, going to Monte Carlo for the first time, a professor from the Sorbonne, Durand by name. They say he has worked on his system for twenty years, and is bringing the savings of a lifetime to test it. Ah! we’ll see what we shall see. Fine looking old chap, isn’t he?”

“Very striking,—like a Hebrew prophet.”

“He has books and books of figures and calculations. What his system is no one knows. I’ve seen a heap of them come like conquerors and go away broken on the wheel.”

“You know the place well?”

“I should think so. Never missed a season for twenty years. Coming here has got to be a habit with me. In summer I have a cottage in Kent where I grow roses; in winter an apartment in Monte where I play roulette. Oh, I’m a great boy, you don’t know me.”

Mr. Tope laughed in jolly appreciation of himself.

“Well, I suppose I’m crazy like the rest of ’em. We’re all crazy there. The Casino is a great lunatic asylum. We wander about as if we were free, but we’re not. Inevitably our feet carry us back. Don’t let it get you, young man. Avoid Monte as you would the plague.... By the way there’s the first call for lunch. I’m going to have a wash first. See you later.”

2.

Hugh followed a line of passengers to the dining car. He had found a place and was looking at the menu card when the waiter ushered a lady into the opposite seat. He looked up and then as quickly away. For even in that casual glimpse he was aware that his vis-à-vis was most alarmingly attractive.

Now Hugh was an unusually shy young man, and in the ordinary course of events would have eaten his meal in silence, and gone away without a word. To his amazement, he heard a firm, clear voice addressing him:

“Don’t you remember me?”

Suddenly he found himself gazing into a pair of smiling brown eyes; but even as he looked the smile died in their amber depths. In its place was embarrassment; a frown puckered the delicately pencilled eyebrows. Again the clear voice spoke almost with reproach.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you are ridiculously like a friend of mine,—Paul Vulning.”

“Indeed, that’s curious.”

“Yes, too absurd. For now I look, you’re quite a bit different. Paul must be five years older than you, but he looks ten. The dear boy doesn’t take the care of himself he ought. A sad scapegrace.”

She regarded him again, then laughed joyously.

“Why, here we are, two perfect strangers talking together like old pals. What must you think of me? Because of your likeness to Paul I feel as if I’d known you for ages. What’s your name?”

“Hugh Kildair.”

“Sounds deliciously Scotch. But you’re English, aren’t you?”

“I’ve lived all my life in England.”

“Indeed? So have I. But never again. The English are so cold. They don’t understand temperament. Even before my husband died and we lost all our money, I was quite fed up with it. Now I spend the winter in Monte and the summer in Aix.”

The waiter interrupted her with the wine card. She looked rather disdainfully down the list and chose the most expensive. Then she scanned Hugh appraisingly. His new grey suit sat well. His collar and tie were of the right sort. He looked clean, correct; a public school man. The lady seemed satisfied.

“You’re a nice boy,” she said happily. “I’m Mrs. Belmire. Every one in Monte knows me. You’re going to Monte, of course?”

Hugh hesitated. “No, I’m rather seedy. I’m going to Menton to rest up.”

“Menton. Why! you’ll be bored to death there! Nothing but old tabbies who go to each others’ teas and talk gossip. Oh, you’ll hate it. Get off at Monte. Promise me you will.”

She was really a beautiful woman. Everything about her was so exquisitely correct. Her complexion had the delicacy of porcelain; her henna-coloured hair looked as if it had just come from the hands of the coiffeur; her eyes had passion in their tarn-brown depths. As her hand touched his he felt that he would have got off at Hades to please her.

“Seems a good idea; I might as well rest there.”

“Topping! it’s decided then. You’ll come and see me. I suppose you’ll stay at the ‘Paris.’ I wouldn’t though. They’ll charge you two hundred francs a night for a room. Oh, yes, my dear boy, you’re going to say their charges are their charges, but you don’t know Monte. Unless you’re odiously oofy, don’t go to the Paris. It’s simply infested with ‘rastas’ and nouveaux riches. Some of the hotels on the hill are really quite nice, and you’ll meet the right sort of people there. You see, I’m taking a motherly interest in you. I don’t want to see you foolishly extravagant. Above all, don’t throw your money away recklessly at the Casino. If you must play let me be your adviser. Let me give you the benefit of my experience.”

“That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Not at all. I’ve helped heaps of men. I can’t afford to play myself, but I enjoy seeing others win. Have a cigarette?”

He took one from a gold case, and they puffed between courses. She sipped only a little of the wine, and the bottle was half full when the waiter whisked it away. She ordered a fine champagne with her coffee, and graciously allowed Hugh to pay the bill. As she rose to leave she gave his hand a little squeeze.

“There! I’ve enjoyed my lunch so much! Remember me; Mrs. Belmire. And don’t forget to get off at Monte.”

The paying of the bill had a sobering effect on him.

“After all,” he thought, “if she knew I was a nobody with only two thousand francs in the world she wouldn’t wipe her shoes on me. As for meeting her in Monte, this decides me. I’ll steer clear of the place.”

3.

The scenery was as lovely as a painted panel. Between umbrella pines he saw the majestic sway of the sea. Snowy villas peeped from sombre cyprus groves. The palms were pale gold in the wistful sunshine. Magic names glorified the commonplace looking stations.—San Raphael, Agay, Nice. In the setting sun the way seemed to be growing more and more wonderful, as if working up to a climax of beauty. Every moment moved him to fresh rapture. And to think that this loveliness had been here all the time and he had not known! How could people continue to exist in that grim grey London? Was there such a place as this, or was he dreaming it? Would he ever go back again to fog and grime? No, never, never....

Villefranche, Beaulieu, Eze ... the light had faded, yet still he stared at the shadows through the darkened pane. He was aware suddenly that the glass was reflecting mirror-like the compartment behind him. At first he thought it was empty, then he heard a sigh and saw it was occupied by a slim slip of a girl. She was sitting in the corner, very quiet, very anxious. She was dressed in deep black, and her white, rather haggard face had a kind of pathetic appeal. He noted all this without any particular interest. Then suddenly she took off her hat and he saw that she had the most wonderful hair in the world.

She rose to arrange it before the small mirror above her seat. With a brusque movement she withdrew two combs and let it ripple down in a rain of gold. It reached below her waist. It covered her like a cape, it shimmered in the lamp-light, it seemed as luminous as a flame. At the sight of such glory Hugh turned and stared.

Then the girl noticed him and flushed with shame. She clutched her bright tresses to her head and swiftly rearranged them. She turned her back....

Monte Carlo.

They were getting in now. The train seemed to plunge into a dazzle of light; then the darkness of another tunnel; then a long green station. On the lamps so meanly printed, he could see the magic name that opens wide the portals of romance. Surely it should be blazoned in fiery capitals on the heights of heaven! This then was the spot of which people talk and dream, that masterpiece of nature and art which never disenchants, which is adorable even in its cruelty. Fatal, fascinating name,—Monte Carlo.

It was the climax of the beautiful journey. The train disgorged nearly all its passengers as if this place like a magnet was drawing them out. He saw Bob Bender, and Jarvie Tope. He watched old Professor Durand looking curiously about him, and a white-haired porter taking the baggage of Mrs. Belmire. He felt alone, abandoned.

As the train lingered, loth to leave this charmed spot, Hugh felt a sudden desire to get off. He saw the fair-haired girl struggling with a basket-valise. With a sudden impulse he gathered together his own luggage and prepared to descend, but the train was already in motion.

“Just as well. Now for Menton.”

Then behold! the train halted again and backed to the station.

“Fate!” said Hugh and jumped off. He passed through a long baggage room into a courtyard where there was a line of luxurious hotel omnibuses and porters in livery. The court was backed by a wall of rock that rose to the heights of a glorious garden. Palms speared the silvery arc-lights. Masses of geraniums stained the face of the rock. On the winding steps that led to the garden a nude statue of a woman was set in a niche amid ferns and water-lilies, and a diamond spray of water.

On the long hill to the right was a line of fiacres. He saw the fair-haired girl hand her bag to one of the drivers.

“Pension Paoli,” she said.

Hugh watched her drive away; then he, too, hailed a fiacre. The dark driver bent to him with smiling politeness.

“Where to, monsieur?”

Hugh thought for a moment. As he stood there he had a strange thrill of wonder and of joy. He seemed to breathe an enchanted air; the silver lights amid the trees were those of fairyland; he felt as if he were hesitating on the very threshold of romance.

“Pension Paoli,” he answered.

CHAPTER THREE
THE POISONED PARADISE

1.

AN amiable, early morning sun was irradiating that great theatre which is Monte Carlo, and a regiment of stage hands were preparing the scene for another day. Hawk-eyed bands of them with brush and pan were grooming the cleanest streets in the world, pouncing triumphantly on burnt matches and unsightly cigarette ends. Other bands invaded the beautiful gardens, trimming each blade of grass to the same size and meticulously barbering each bud and flower. They moved with nonchalant grace, these brown-skinned Monegascans, as became the servitors of that great, benevolent institution, the Casino.

As Hugh passed through the gardens, breathing the perfumed air, a great delight glowed in him. His first impression was of the theatric quality of the place, its note of unreality. It was a fit setting for the pleasure-seeking hordes, for the legions of luxury, for these dreaming of fortune and those dead to hope. He never lost his sense of its unreality, of its being a stage scene, on which was played a daily drama in three acts: Morning, Afternoon, and Evening.

Passing between the Casino and the Hotel de Paris, he descended in the direction of the Condamine. At the top of a long hill, a little way past the post office, he paused with a joy that thrilled him to ecstasy....

He saw a little U shaped harbour shielded from the sea. It was as delicate as a pastel, a placque of sapphire set in pearl. In the crystal air the red-roofed houses crowded close to it. The terraced town rose on tip-toe to peer at it. It was all glitter and gleam, and radiant beauty. And yonder in sombre contrast rose the Rock, monstrous, mediæval,—so scornful of that hectic modernity across the bay....

He climbed the long steep hill, crossed the sunny square in front of the palace and plunged into the cool gloom of the narrow streets. Wandering idly along he came to a low brown house with a tiny porch, and four pepper-trees in front. He looked at it carelessly enough, then turned and wandered into the garden of the Prince. He gazed curiously at a broken pillar covered with ivy. There was a spring sunk deep in the rock; the flowers bloomed there; and bees and butterflies made the nook gay and tuneful. He found a bench that overlooked the glimmering sea and rested awhile.

As he sat pensively dreaming, two pale ghosts may have been watching him; a man strong and tall, a girl sweet and fragrant as a flower. Perhaps wrapt in that great love to which he owed his being, they were drawing near to him with wistful pain, with adoring tenderness. Who knows?...

Filled with a strange melancholy Hugh rose and went his unheeding way. Again he looked carelessly at the house in which his mother was born, in which her mother still lived....

But he remembered nothing. He did not know. He never knew....

2.

The chief recommendation of the Pension Paoli was its cheapness. For twenty francs a day Hugh had his board and a chamber that overlooked the red roofs and the blue sea beyond. He had a tiny balcony, too, and in the lazy, limpid days he cultivated a cheerful lethargy.

It was one of those Bohemian establishments peculiar to the Principality. People came and went without exciting interest. The clientele was imperturbably cosmopolitan, the cuisine piquantly Italian. At the table d’hôte one heard half a dozen tongues and no one was concerned about the respectability of his neighbour. Every one seemed to gamble, and to think of little but the Casino.

Hugh’s first evening was typical. He was trying to go to sleep, when about midnight some one entered the next room. He heard the sound of money being emptied on the table, counted, then a sigh of satisfaction. Every night this happened, only some nights there was no money and curses took the place of content. On such nights he would say to himself, “The Twitcher’s been loosing.”

The Twitcher was a tall weedy man, who, owing to some nervous malady, had a trick of raising and lowering his eyebrows. He had a friend whom Hugh called the Sword-Swallower, on account of his way of eating ravioli. The S. S. was small and brisk, with tiny, cropped head, and a large but carefully groomed moustache. His trousers were striped and of the same width all the way down.

The S. S. and the Twitcher were allies and united in a dislike for a third man, whom Hugh dubbed the Rat. This was a sturdy, bandy-legged fellow with a bulging jaw, a broken nose and close-set, beady eyes. His skin had a curious pallor, a prison pallor, Hugh thought. He decided that the Rat had just finished doing time and was now spending the swag.

One day he overheard a conversation between the Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower which referred to the Rat.

“Yes,” said the Twitcher, “the fellow’s as crooked as a ram’s horn. I saw him do it again.”

“Do what?”

“He puts a louis on one of the dozens then watches the ball. Just as it drops he shifts his stake to the winning dozen. He is quick as a flash and nine times out of ten the croupier doesn’t notice it. So he gets paid.”

“He’s a shady one. If you leave your money in the table at night, be sure to lock your door.”

“I’ve never done so yet, but in future I’ll be more careful.”

At this moment the Rat entered and greeted them with a twinkle in his beady eyes.

“Well,” he said briskly, “I’ve just made my ‘day,’—five louis. Now I can rest.”

“You’re easily satisfied,” said the Twitcher; “if I don’t clear twenty, I think I’m out of luck.”

“Not me,” said the Sword-Swallower. “If I can make the bank cough up a couple of louis I quit. But I never fail.”

“What’s your system?” demanded the Rat.

“Oh, I play for a paroli. And yours?”

“I always play between the dozens,” answered the Rat; “it’s the safest.”

“Yes,” said the Twitcher. “You play a safe game all right. As for me, give me the traversals....”

Here the conversation became too technical for Hugh to follow. Presently the Twitcher said to the S. S.:

“Come on. Let’s go and scratch.”

As they went away, the Rat installed himself in a comfortable chair and called for a Dubonnet. Then he lit a cigarette from a yellow packet, blew the smoke blissfully through his nostrils, sipped his apéritif, and seemed content with all the world.

“A sinister chap,” Hugh thought, and ceased to look at him. Suddenly he heard a gasp of dismay.

The Rat was staring out of the window, his sallow face livid, his hands clutching the table edge. Then he dived through the little door at the back of the restaurant and disappeared. Astonished, Hugh followed the direction of the man’s gaze. All he saw was a mild old priest peering rather curiously at the house. Hugh watched wonderingly; but the priest, after lingering a little, went slowly away, and the Rat did not finish his apéritif.

Among the other boarders were two Swedish women, mother and daughter. The mother was short and fat, and the daughter, tall and thin; but both were blonde and had shiny, red faces. They dressed in black satin, with gold chains round their necks and diamond rings on every available finger. They ate gluttonously, and spoke a harsh, gabbling tongue. Although they were evidently rich, they gambled greedily for five franc pieces.

Occasionally Hugh saw the girl with the bright, heaping hair. Sometimes at meals he would see her slip into a remote corner, quiet as a mouse. She looked at no one, kept her head down, ate very little and stole out again as softly as she had come.

One day he questioned Terese, the waitress, about her.

“Ah,” said Terese, “you’re asking me something. All I can tell you is that her name on the register is Margot Leblanc. She’s a queer one. Never speaks to a soul. She spends her time between the church and the Casino, between praying and gambling. I can’t make her out.”

Hugh’s curiosity was aroused. But the girl’s manner discouraged any attempt at acquaintance. Once when he chanced to encounter her on the stair, his polite greeting was met by such a sullen silence that his interest in her faded.

3.

His health was improving daily. It seemed quite wonderful. Instead of watching the tennis-players, he wanted to join them. The distance of his walks lengthened. He joined the little English library and changed his books frequently. On the heights above the town, sitting under an olive tree with the vast shimmer of the sea below him, he read through long sunny hours. Sometimes he got out his box of water colours, and made some sketches.

At half past nine every morning he sauntered down the palm-lined avenue that descends to the Casino. Even at that hour it was packed with luxurious motors, and he christened it “Limousine Lane.” Dozens of gardeners were valeting the lawns on either hand to an unheard of greenness and trimness. The air was always delicious.

At the foot of “Limousine Lane” was the “Cheese,” a round grassy mound diagrammed with flowers. It was shaded by four proud palms and a great rubber tree. Around it were seats for spectators. Lounging there Hugh saw the world of fashion parade. Women exquisitely dressed, and men immaculate sauntered past like actors on a stage. They mounted the seven carpeted steps of the Casino, paused for a moment as if conscious that every detail of their costumes was perfect; then turned and were swallowed by the Temple of Chance.

While Hugh never wearied of this constant swirl of elegance, his main interest was in the swinging doors of the Casino itself. He never tired of watching the players come and go. One day Bob Bender came down the steps looking rustier and more mildewed than ever. He recognized Hugh.

“What, sir,—not playing yet?”

“No, I have no money to lose. Are you doing all right?”

The old gambler shook his head in a melancholy way.

“Not exactly. I’m transversing a bad time. I was expecting a gentleman from America who wanted me to play for him, but he is delayed,—a Mr. Fetterstein. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

“No.”

“Well, his not comin’ has deranged me. I’ve been playin’ a little game of my own but I ’aven’t got capital enough. This mornin’ I came up against zero three times. A man can’t do anything against that. Now I’m off to get a bite of lunch. Maybe things will come my way this afternoon.”

He shambled off. Before going to his own luncheon Hugh strolled around the gardens. Nurses were watching beautiful, well-behaved children. The round pond mirrored the palms and pink geraniums; the little stream was fringed by ferns and flowers and starred with water-lilies. The green sweep of the sward was like a carpet, set with strange exotic trees, agave and cactus and dwarf oranges. Midway there was a little artificial ford, with gold-fishes glancing in the lazy ripples.

Yet there were jarring notes in this harmony. An old man for instance who sat on a bench reading discarded journals. He wore eye-glasses and had an air of dignity quite at variance with his rags. His boots were altogether disreputable and his coat would have disgraced a decent ash-bin. Yet it was easy to see that he had been a person of education and refinement who had lost a fortune at the tables. Hugh took a seat beside him.

“Well,” said the old fellow, “what do you think of it?”

“It’s beautiful,” said Hugh with fervour.

The other looked at him sarcastically.

“Beautiful, yes ... and it’s to me and the likes of me you owe it; we pay for it; we keep it up. Take a good gaze at me, young chap, and you’ll enjoy it all the more.” He laughed so disagreeably that Hugh rose and left him. But the gardens did not seem as lovely as before.

4.

Hugh’s favourite walk was along the highroad that led to the Tête du Chien. It crossed a dizzy bridge over a deep gorge in which the washerwomen hung their linen to dry. At the mouth of this gorge, framed in the arches of the railway bridge, was a tiny chapel, and behind it, like a slab of lapis lazuli, the harbour. Climbing still higher the road passed the Persian villa and reached the top of the hill. Almost directly below were the red roofs of the Condamine.

Continuing still further the road swung into a great curve high above Monaco, disclosing both the Rock and the sweet serenity of the sea. Terrace upon terrace of olive trees rose to the base of the mountain.

Hugh was walking along this road one morning, admiring the beauty that surrounded him, when suddenly he glanced down. In the dust at his feet, fresh and glistening, was a crimson patch. “Curious,” he thought; “those marks look as if a heavy body had fallen here.” He examined the stone-wall and found a slight spatter of blood. A little further on, he picked up something that made him look very thoughtful, a bit of bony fibre, to which adhered a few dark hairs. Strange! He looked downwards, and saw that he stood just above the Cemetery of Monaco. He found the path and slowly descended.

He searched for some time for the suicide’s section of the cemetery which he had been told was cunningly concealed. A great high wall separated the lower from the upper graveyard, and built half the way up the face of it, was another wall, the space between the two forming a narrow shelf. There was no access to this shelf except through a broken place in the balustrade of the stairway just large enough to pass a coffin. As he looked down from the upper wall, Hugh saw that the whole length of the shelf was closely packed with nameless graves. In one place where the earth had been thrown carelessly up a rusty shovel leaned against the wall. The air had the smell of a charnel pit.

He climbed the hill again. The place where he had seen the blood was now quite clean. There was no trace of any disturbance. Some one had come in his absence and tidied things up. The sky had suddenly grown grey, grey too and sinister the mountains. He had an uneasy sense that somewhere in the olive trees unseen eyes were watching him; that he was being spied on and shadowed.

5.

Another day when he took this solitary walk, twilight was gathering and the roofs of the Condamine were softened to a coral mist. The space between the rock of Monaco and the Tête du Chien was filled with sunset after-glow as a cup is filled with wine. The olive trees lately twinkling in the sunshine were now mysteriously still.

When Hugh came to the highest point overlooking the town, he stopped to rest. The rock of Monaco rose like a monster from the sea, and was as dim and silent as a tomb. He could distinguish the courtyard of the Palace, greyly alight, and a black stencilling of windows. A solitary lamp revealed a turret and an ancient archway, all else was gloom. In its austere mediæval strength the rock seemed the abode of mystery and silence.

And Monte Carlo! Looking towards it Hugh could see nothing but light. The mountains were pricked with patterns of light, the great hotels were packed with light. And all seemed to concentrate in one dazzling centre, the source from which this luxury of light flowed,—the Casino.

Then he noticed that on a bench near him was a stooping figure. To his surprise he recognized it as that of Professor Durand. The old man was clutching in his hands a number of the Revue of Monte Carlo with its columns of permanencies.

“What a pity!” thought Hugh. “So fine, so venerable a head bent over those wretched figures. This man who might be taken for a preacher, a prophet,—a slave to this vulgar vice, puzzling over systems, trying to outwit the Goddess Chance. Le calcul peut vaincre le jeu ... that is the lying phrase that lures them. Fools!”

Then he turned for the Professor was addressing him. Hugh saw a flashing eye, a noble brow.

“Young man, you will excuse me, but I claim the privilege of age. At the Sorbonne I have lectured to thousands like you. I speak because I noted in your passing glance something of disdain.”

Hugh made a gesture of protest.

“No, I do not blame you. You see me with these numbers. But you misjudge me.... Listen....”

The old man seemed to grow taller. He stretched his hand to where the Casino glittered like a crown of gems.

“I am eighty years old to-day. I have a feeling that I shall never see another birthday. But there is one thing I hope to do before I die ... to ruin that accursed place.”

Hugh stared at him.

“I speak for the good of humanity, I speak because of the evil it has done in the past, the harm it can do in years to come. I speak in behalf of its thousand of blasted homes, its broken hearts, its shameful graves. Ah! you only see the beautiful surface. You do not see below. But I do. And to my eyes yonder rock on which it stands, is built of human skulls, the waves that lap it are tears and blood. Look at the loveliness of earth and sky, the purple mountain rising from the silver sea, the dreamlike peace, the soft and gentle air. No painted picture was ever half so beautiful. How happy all might be here! A paradise, a human paradise; but because of that place, a poisoned paradise.”

Hugh stared harder. The old man’s voice was tense with passion.

“You think I am a fanatic, a madman. Wait and see. I am going to destroy that place. For years I have worked on my great plan. It is the crown of my life. In a few weeks I will begin to play. I shall win and win. By mathematics I will frustrate chance. I will compel them to close their doors, for my system is invincible. God has given me this task to do, and I will complete it before I die. Into my hands He has delivered them. I am His instrument of vengeance. Let them beware!”

In a magnificent gesture he shook his clenched fists at the Casino. When Hugh left him he was still standing like a prophet on the heights, staring down on his poisoned paradise.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE GIRL WHO WAS ALWAYS ALONE

1.

CHRISTMAS had come and gone, a strange, unreal Christmas, with none of those rigors and austerities that Hugh had been accustomed to associate with the season. The long stretch of garden in front of the Casino was enamelled with patterns of pink, purple and milky cyclamen, as brilliant as banners against the green; the ribbon-like paths were terra-cotta; and the usual indolent gardeners were shaving and shampooing the velvety lawns.

Hugh was feeling elaborately well. In the last two months a great change had come over him. His pale face had taken on a healthy tan; its hollows had disappeared. A new force, a new courage possessed him; he looked a lithe, swift youth, as clean as fire.

It was then with a joyous sense of recovered manhood that he took the early train one morning for La Turbie, and started to walk to Menton. As he swung along the High Corniche it seemed as if he was looking over the nose of an aeroplane. The brilliant panorama of shore and sea expanded before his gaze. He saw the Rock rising like a huge hump from the water, the crowded red roofs of the Principality, the dainty hoop of the harbour. His gaze shifted to the dazzling curve of the coast, the pretentious Casino, Cap Martin with its gleam of modern villas in ancient olive groves. A desire to paint this beauty kindled and glowed within him.

He climbed to the ruins of the old castle of Roquebrune and gazed through a round window onto a dizzy gulf of sea and sky. His reverie was disturbed by a sound of voices and as he descended to the courtyard he saw a woman standing by the battlements, looking out into the great, shining space. She was tall and graceful, dressed in a jersey costume of primrose silk. It was Mrs. Belmire.

As if she had known he was there, she stretched her hand backwards, without turning her head.

“Come here,” she commanded.

Hugh obeyed. He took the outstretched hand and was drawn gently to her side.

“Isn’t it lovely,” she sighed.

He felt her hand tighten in his. He had a sudden desire to kiss her lovely neck. Slowly she turned towards him, then stepped back and stamped her foot in vexation.

“Oh, it’s you!” she cried. “Well, of all the— I thought it was Mr. Fetterstein.”

But quickly she recovered herself.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you, naughty young man. Why have you never come to see me?”

Hugh had no excuse ready.

“I had made up my mind not to speak to you again. But there! Good nature was always my weakness. Promise me to come soon and I’ll forgive you.”

While Hugh was promising another man joined them. Mrs. Belmire turned to the newcomer radiantly.

“Mr. Fetterstein; I want to introduce Mr. Kildair; a young countryman of mine.”

Mr. Fetterstein did not look enthusiastic, but mustered a show of cordiality.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said; and offered a large hard hand. In fact everything about Mr. Fetterstein suggested hardness. He looked muscular and forceful. His hair was iron grey; the lines of his clean-shaven face were firm and grim; his jaw strong; his eyes shrewd; his voice had a determined rasp. Even his clothes were made of some hard, wear-resisting tweed.

“Now, come,” said Mrs. Belmire; “I positively insist on your admiring this view.”

“If you insist, Mrs. Belmire, there is nothing more to be said. But you know how looking at scenery always makes me hungry. Even now I’ve got an appetite I wouldn’t sell for a twenty dollar bill. I grant you this is fine all right. We haven’t got anything in the United States that could touch it. But for my part I’d rather look into the inside of a good car than at the finest bit of scenery the Lord ever made.”

“Oh, you horrid materialist! But you must excuse him, Mr. Kildair. His enthusiasm is entirely professional. Mr. Fetterstein makes automobiles in America somewhere....”

“Detroit, Michigan, ma’am. We have five factories running right now. In fact I’m over here to pick up pointers from French cars. I’ve got one down there that’s a hummer. But that reminds me, Mrs. Belmire, we’d better be getting ong root if we want to make Song Reemo in time for dayjoonay. Come on. Let’s get down if you’ve had enough of your old ruin.”

Mrs. Belmire sighed. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my ruin.”

“I guess it’s a first class ruin all right, but they ain’t much in my line. Now, Mrs. Belmire, if you’ll kindly give me a few pointers on roulette when we get back to Monte Carlo to-night, that’d make a hit with me.”

They descended to the village square where stood a long vicious-looking, torpedo-shaped car. It was painted a warm orange, with finishings of nickel. In the curving body was a well with two seats, and the whole thing looked like an aeroplane without wings.

“Twelve cylinders,” said Mr. Fetterstein, as he climbed into the raking seat. Mrs. Belmire looked distinctly nervous but bravely adjusted her cloak and veil. Mr. Fetterstein raced the engine, jammed in his first speed; the car leapt forward like a flame. Hugh saw it flashing down the white road and thrilled as it took the sharp curves. Then a shoulder of mountain hid it from his view.

“A most delightful woman,” he thought; “no wonder she has a lot of admirers. I wish I could call on her, but what’s the good. She’d only find out that I’m what Mr. Fetterstein would describe as a ‘four-flusher.’”

2.

Hugh lunched and lounged in Menton, until he felt a strange nostalgia for Monte Carlo come over him.

“Curious,” he reflected; “already the place has such a hold on me, I cannot leave it even for a few hours.”

He jumped into a big lemon-coloured motor bus and in half an hour was sitting in the Café de Paris.

“Hullo, old chap,” he heard a shrill voice say, and looked up to see Mr. Jarvie Tope. Mr. Tope seemed as if he had stepped from a band-box, a flawless figure of a well-dressed man.

“Hullo!” responded Hugh. “You’re looking well.”

Mr. Tope raised his jaunty panama.

“I should think so, sixty and still going strong. Getting younger instead of older. Oh, I’m a great boy, I am.”

“Come and have tea with me,” Hugh begged.

Mr. Tope sat down. Together they gazed at the brilliant scene. The air was bright with banners and exultant with music. Gay crowds promenaded in front of the Casino. An aeroplane swooped down, scaring the drowsy pigeons on the cornice. Men watched it through their monocles, women from under their tiny frilled sunshades. Under the striped umbrellas elegant demi-mondaines sipped their orangeades; professional dandies, slim and elegant, passed amid the green tables; and dancing girls, befurred and bejewelled, sauntered on their way to the Thé Dansant. It was a kaleidoscope of colour; a moving pattern of dainty costumes; an entertainment that never lost its interest.

“Isn’t it just like a scene in a theatre?” said Mr. Tope. “That’s how it strikes me even after twenty years. A beautifully dressed crowd, beautifully behaved; yet below it all vice unfathomable. It sometimes reminds me of the rainbow iridescence one sees on a pool of scum.... By the way, I haven’t seen you tempting the fickle goddess?”

“No, I haven’t been inside the Casino.”

“Ha! that’s quite a distinction. I noticed you talking to old Bob Bender the other day.”

“Yes, he’s having rather a hard time. He’s waiting a backer from America.”

“Oh, you needn’t waste any sympathy on old Bob. He’ll never starve.”

“Why?”

“Well,” said Mr. Tope, lowering his voice to a whisper, “they say he’s in the service of the Secret Police.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, young man! you only see the showy side of Monte; but believe me, there’s a very seamy under one. This is the most cosmopolitan spot in the world, and criminals of all countries collect here. You might call it a sort of criminal clearing-house. Well, to counteract this, the Casino people have the most efficient police force in Europe. They have agents in all the big capitals; an international crook can’t put his foot in Monaco without being recognized and watched.”

“You surprise me.”

“Do I? Let me tell you: the rooms are full of detectives, male and female. The chief of the Secret Police is a man of genius, a Swiss called Krantz. He speaks seven languages and seems to have an eighth sense, the sense of detection. You may have seen him, a tall, thin man dressed in black with a dark, clean-shaven face. He always wears a smile of cheerful simplicity.”

“And Bob?”

“Oh, Bob’s just a spy. He keeps track of the English crooks and shadows if required. They say Krantz values him.”

“It seems very strange to me.”

“Not at all. If you only knew the underground workings of this place, the mentality, the way in which everything is run.... Why, here you’re not living in the Twentieth Century at all. It’s mediæval. Even now some spy may be trying to over-hear us.”

“A queer place!”

“Yes, and packed with the queerest people on earth. Now, for instance, that little girl in black, just entering.”

Hugh started. The girl was Margot Leblanc. He had not seen her for some time, and had wondered if she was still at the pension. She was dressed shabbily and as she passed he saw that her face was white and haggard, and her eyes stared vacantly before her. She sat down at a nearby table.

“Now, that girl,” continued Mr. Tope, “is a puzzle to me. She came here about two months ago and she has never been seen to speak to any one. She is always alone. Nobody knows anything about her. She spends most of her time in the Rooms gambling with small stakes. I have seen her stand silently at a table for hours.... By the way, here come my friends, the Calderbrooks. Let me introduce you.”

The Calderbrooks were so uncompromisingly English, that their nationality was recognizable a long way off. They wore tailored costumes made of the same kind of tweed, with stockings of wool and low tan shoes. Under broad-brimmed hats their faces were pink and cheerful. The mother was sweet; the girl pretty; the father a tall thin man, with drooping moustache, a mild manner, and pale blue eyes.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, after they had been introduced, “we’re going on to Mentony; but we thought we must spend a day or two here.... Perfectly beautiful! Mr. Tope tells me you don’t go to the Rooms? How very extraordinary! Of course, we strongly disapprove of the whole thing; but I think every one should go once, if it’s only to see. We’re going in now for the first time. Mr. Tope has promised to be our guide. We shall play just once to say we have done so. You’d better come with us.”

Hugh shook his head smilingly; “I’d rather not, thank you. I’ll wait here till you come out.”

“All right. Shan’t be long.”

Piloted by Mr. Tope the three mounted the carpeted steps, passed the bowing flunkeys, and disappeared through the swinging glass doors. In half an hour they reappeared. They were quite excited.

“It’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Calderbrook; “Alice put five francs on the twenty-one, that being her age. What do you think! The twenty-one came up. They paid her a hundred and eighty francs. Of course we stopped at once. It doesn’t do to abuse one’s luck. I really believe we are lucky. We’re going again to-night. Father will try this time,—won’t you, Father?”

Mr. Calderbrook said he would in his weak, refined voice. Alice was shyly radiant. Hugh wished them further good fortune and they returned to their hotel, eagerly talking of the play.

3.

Hugh remained a while longer. He was watching the girl of his pension. Her face was pinched and peaked, her eyes strangely haunting in their pathos. She was so thin that he could see the outline of her sharp shoulder blades under her shabby jacket. Her bright hair was braided and coiled away under a hat of black crepe.

“Poor little devil,” Hugh thought; “she looks up against it.”

Presently she took a note-book with black glazed covers from her bag, and began to turn its pages abstractedly. Hugh saw that it was filled with columns of figures.

“Roulette records,” he thought again, “the same idiotic obsession.”

Soon she rose; and having finished his tea, he sauntered idly after her. He thought she was going to re-enter the Casino; but instead she turned up-hill in the direction of the town. He saw her climb the steps of the Church and enter its swinging door.

After waiting a little, he, too, entered. He found her seated in the cool dusk, her slim hands crossed and her eyes closed. Whether she was sleeping or praying he could not tell. He watched her for a while; then as she continued to sit immovable he went away.

4.

Hugh had found that the strange theatrical charm of Monte Carlo was most obvious after dark, and he never tired of wandering through the still gardens, breathing the delicious freshness of the air. Whichever way he looked a picture formed itself. The tiny paths were like coral ribbands on a gown of green, embroidered with pansy patterns of crimson, violet and silver. Under the lamps the blades of the patrician palms shone like swords. There were lace-screens of translucent green, rich velvet dusks, and sudden surprises of silver. The fountain sprayed diamonds into the dark pool, from which came the ruddy flash of gold-fishes; the roses climbed the palms as if to reach the light.

That evening he took a seat on the terrace. He heard below him the soft crooning of the sea, and felt its cool breath. Behind him was starlight and softly luminous mountains; in front, deep violet space ... mystery, immensity.

A small form came slowly along the terrace. As it drew near he saw it was the strange girl who was always alone. Once or twice she stopped, looking out over the balustrade to the sea. As she passed him he saw that her face had the vacant look of a sleep-walker. She sank on a bench, and took a glazed note-book from her bag. As she looked at it she sighed with weariness. Her head drooped forward and she slept.

Another dark form drew near her, the furtive figure of a man. Softly he sat down on the same bench and seemed to edge nearer and nearer.

Hugh rose, making unnecessary noise. The man, with a start, glanced his way and swiftly disappeared. Yet in that flash Hugh had recognized him; it was that sinister individual, the Rat.

Hugh went for a walk in the Condamine and did not return until half past ten. He glanced down to the terrace; hunched on the bench, a solitary figure, the girl still slept.

When he got back to the pension, he found it strangely upset. The two Swedish ladies were going off in a fiacre with their baggage. Their faces were very red, and they gabbled furiously. The Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower were talking in low tones. The Rat was nowhere to be seen.

“Perhaps,” whispered Teresa, the waitress, “I shouldn’t tell you, but madame and mademoiselle have left us. They say some one has gone into their room and stolen money. It was done this afternoon. Fortunately for me I was away at the time. It is very annoying. Voila! it is evident we have in the house a thief.”

CHAPTER FIVE
THE THIEF

HUGH was preparing to leave the Pension Paoli. Its increasing atmosphere of furtiveness and suspicion was getting on his nerves. He had taken a large, sunny unfurnished room in the Condamine and had bought a folding bed, a table, a chair, and some cooking utensils. Here he would be alone and quite free. He would spend his days in sketching, his evenings in reading.

He was considering all this as he sat on a bench on the terrace just above that green promontory where they shot the pigeons. Even as he watched the slaughter was going on. A nimble lad would run out by one of the red, radiating paths and put a pigeon into one of the grey boxes; then he would retire and after a short interval the side of the box would collapse, leaving a bewildered bird facing an overwhelming freedom. Sometimes the bird would hop around stupidly, fearing to rise until a rubber ball bounding towards it hastened its decision. Bang! Bang! Generally the bird would drop on the green turf, to be swiftly retrieved by an eager dog. Sometimes, however, it would get away and, minus a tail, circle over the sea, finally rejoining its fellows in front of the Casino. When a pigeon escaped, Hugh wanted to applaud for joy. But few escaped, and he was turning away in disgust when he saw the Calderbrooks.

“Hullo!” he said, “I’m surprised. I thought you’d gone long ago.”

“No,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, “we decided to extend our stay. It’s really a lovely little place. We find the Casino so fascinating. We go there every day now.”

“Do you still play?”

“Oh, a little. Just for chicken-feed though. Father makes enough to pay for his cigarettes, while I generally get the Casino to stand afternoon tea. Oh, we’re very careful.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Calderbrook in his soft refined voice. “One has to be careful if one goes every day. However, an old fellow called Bender has taught me a system that so far has been very successful. You put three pieces on the passe and two on the first dozen, or three pieces on the manque and two on the last dozen. You have only six numbers against you. It’s safe.”

“By the way,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, “we saw an American break the bank yesterday, a Mr. Fetterstein. He played the number seventeen in every possible way, staking the maximum. They had to ring for more money. It was quite interesting. He must have won over a hundred thousand francs. Well, Father, we’ll leave you with Mr. Kildair to finish your pipe, while Alice and I go in to try our luck.”

When they had gone Mr. Calderbrook talked of various subjects, until suddenly dropping his voice, he said:

“You see that man in black coming along the terrace—the tall thin one.”

“The one with the clean-shaven face and the fixed smile?”

“Yes. That’s the great Krantz, the Chief of the Secret Police.”

As he passed them the eyes of Krantz were focussed on their faces.

“There,” said Mr. Calderbrook, “he knew we were discussing him.”

Hugh looked after the detective. His right hand, held behind his back, was carrying what looked like a sword cane. It was a long and muscular hand, and Hugh noted that part of the little finger was missing.

“They say,” said Mr. Calderbrook, “that he has all kinds of spies working for him and that he is quite unscrupulous. People who displease him have a way of disappearing suddenly. But then everything is high-handed about this place. It is beyond the law. All kinds of strange things can be done here and hushed up, all kinds of crimes go unpunished. It seems to be run quite irresponsibly. The Casino is supreme and rules with a high hand. All it cares for is to get money....”

Mr. Calderbrook began to bore him, and Hugh excused himself. He returned to the pension to prepare for his departure.

“To-morrow,” he thought, “I shall go away and all these people will pass out of my existence. It is pleasant to think one can put them so quietly out of one’s life. Ah! the beauty of liberty!”

He felt that he could not bear to remain more than one more night under the same roof with the Rat. The Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower were to be tolerated, but the Rat made him shudder. There are people who make us wish the world was bigger, that we might have more room to avoid them. The Rat was one of these; his very proximity was physically disagreeable. His skin was the colour of the fresh Gruyère cheese, except where his eye sockets darkened to chocolate. Criminal or not the man suggested reptilian perversions.

When Hugh paid his modest bill, he received a thousand francs in change, and as he stuffed the small notes into his pocket-book, he was aware that the sharp eyes of the Rat were upon him.

It was after ten o’clock and the Pension Paoli was very quiet. All the boarders were apparently at the Casino. The big building seemed deserted.

Leaving the door of his room ajar, Hugh threw himself on his bed. Soon he heard the street door open and some one pass upstairs. It was the Rat.

As he lay in the darkness, and listened to the sounds of the great gloomy house, a strange feeling of uneasiness began to creep over him. This grew so strong that after a bit he rose and went out on his little balcony. The air was exquisite. Over him flowed the river of night, and looking up into its lucid depths he saw the sky, its bed, pebbled with stars. Then his eyes drifted to the myriad lights that lay between him and the sea, lights now clear, now confused into a luminous mist....

What was that? Surely some one was moving softly in the passage? No; he was not wrong. Some one was trying the door of the next room, the Twitcher’s. But the Twitcher had locked it, and after one or two efforts the sound ceased.

Then Hugh had an inspiration. Taking out his pocket-book he threw it on the bed. Enough light came from the window to show it black against the white counterpane. There! the trap was baited.

Footsteps again in the passage, fumbling, muffled. They were drawing nearer, they were opposite his door. In the darkness he heard hard, hurried breathing. His own heart was tapping like a hammer. Surely the footsteps were passing? No, they had halted. Then slowly, slowly, his door was pushed open, and a black stealthy form crept to his bed.

He held his breath, and waited.... Now the dark shape was close.... Now an arm reached out, and a hand seized the pocket-book.... Now....

Hugh leapt forward and closed the door. He was alone in the darkness with the intruder. He had done it. The Rat was trapped.

“You dirty sneak-thief, I’ve got you,” he cried.

He switched on the electricity, and the room leaped into light. Against the far wall, cowering and clutching at it for support, was a figure in a black hood and cape.

Then it was Hugh’s turn to start back and utter a cry of dismay.

For framed in the black hood, and gazing at him wild-eyed with fear, was Margot Leblanc.

CHAPTER SIX
THERE WAS A LONG SILENCE

1.

SHRINKING against the wall the girl looked up at him, her face sick with terror. Amazement turned him to stone. Then suddenly he recovered himself; and his astonishment changed to disgust.

“Well,” he said in a hard voice, “caught you in the act, didn’t I?”

She did not answer.

“I’m sorry, very sorry. I’d rather it had been any one else. Tell me, is there any reason I shouldn’t hand you over to the police?”

No answer.

“Speak, please. Is there any reason?...”

Her arms dropped. She straightened up, and looked him full in the face.

“There is. I’m starving. I haven’t tasted food for two days....” Then she sank at his feet.

2.

Two hours later they were in a lonely corner of a restaurant. She had satisfied her hunger, and was sitting silent, downcast, sullen.

He looked at her with keen, bright eyes. “Poor little devil!” he thought, “perhaps she isn’t so bad after all.” Then aloud he said: “I suppose when you went to the Twitcher’s room your intention was to steal?”

She hesitated. After all, what did it matter? “Yes,” she answered. “I went down there to steal.”

“You also stole the money belonging to the Swede women....”

“No, I didn’t do that. I swear I didn’t....”

He looked at her steadily. He did not believe her.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s going to become of you?”

“I don’t know.”

He leaned back, his hands clasping his knee. He noted a tress of bright gold hair coiling over her hollow cheek.

“I mustn’t leave her to her fate,” he thought.

Bending forward he said impulsively: “Look here, let me lend you some money.”

A deep flush stained her cheek. He, too, was one of them ... the beasts. Sharply she answered:

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t choose to accept your aid.”

“It seems to me you’re not in a position to refuse it; you haven’t a sou. To-morrow you’re to be turned out of your room. Madam will certainly keep all your belongings. You will have nowhere to go. You have no friends here. You are not fit to do any work. You are on the verge of a break-down. Again I ask ... what’s going to become of you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Look here ... suppose I lay a charge against you of entering my room with intent to steal,—will you deny it?”

“No.”

“Well then, you are in my power. You must submit to my conditions.”

She looked at him sullenly. “What are they?”

“I’m not going to lend you any money, but I am going to help you in my own way. First of all, I want you to promise me that you will never enter the Casino again.”

She laughed bitterly. “I’ll promise that. I hate the place.”

“Now, I’m taking a room in the Condamine. I want you to come there and be my housekeeper.”

She could not keep the contempt out of her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said sharply. “I see you don’t understand.”

“You don’t mean ... that?”

“No, damn it, I don’t mean—that.”

She looked at him with new interest, steadily, wonderingly. He went on: “It’s a big room. We’ll divide it into three, with screens and curtains. There will be your part, and my part, and a common one to be used as a kitchen and dining-room. Don’t fear. You’ll be as safe behind your curtain as if you were in a room with doors double-locked.”

She had never met a man like this. Wonder widened her eyes. He laughed to see it, a frank boyish laugh.

“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I don’t see why it won’t work, though. If I were a Frenchman, it surely wouldn’t. But we Anglo-Saxons are a cold-blooded lot. We’re idealists, given to doing strange, mad things. I give you my word of honour I will respect you as I would a sister. There you have it. We will be brother and sister. We are enough alike to pass for that. I had intended to do my own cooking, but that will be your job now. Then, while you are resting quietly and getting back your health, I will attack the Casino and get back your money.”

“How will you do that?”

“By playing. I hate to play, but if I do I have an idea I can win. At least I can afford to risk a thousand francs and with that I propose to win back the two thousand you need to take you to Paris.”

“No, no. You mustn’t play. No one ever wins there. You’ll lose everything.”

“Leave it to me. Come on now, it’s decided. That you trust me, is all I ask. Everything will come out right. In six weeks I promise you I’ll send you back to Paris with enough money to start your little shop. Brother and sister,—n’est ce pas?”

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I am in your hands. You can do with me as you will.”

Again he laughed that boyish laugh. “There! don’t look so tragic. Everything’s lovely. Come on, we’ll get back to the pension.”

They walked in silence through the exotic gardens. The pink clock in the tower of the Casino pointed to half an hour after midnight; the shutters were descending over the entrance doors. He looked at the place with a new interest. Hitherto it had meant nothing to him. Now he saw in it an antagonist. He was looking on a battle-ground where he would win or fall. On the morrow the fight would begin.

So absorbed was he that he forgot the girl by his side. Then a soft sound aroused him. He looked down and saw that she was crying.

END OF BOOK TWO

BOOK THREE
The Wheel

CHAPTER ONE
THE TEMPLE OF CHANCE

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.

“Well, I’ve made my day, but the bank gave me a hard fight for it.” “Yes, a martingale’s deadly. It will always get you in the end.”

Looking towards the left he saw three mysterious doors. From the center one a stream of people was pouring, with an expression on their faces of either impassivity or disgust, elation was rare. By the side doors another crowd was entering. Those to the left were eager and excited; those to the right calm and blasé. These were the respective doors for the visitor and the habitué. It was through the visitors’ door that Hugh passed. At last! He was on the threshold of the greatest gambling room on earth.

First impression,—nasal. How could people breathe such air? It struck him like a blow in the face. It was so thick, so richly human,—a compound of physical exhalations, cheap cosmetics and disease. It almost daunted him. Second impression,—oral. A confused murmur of many voices. A discreet rumble, punctuated by the acrid cries of the croupiers and the click of rakes on counters. Third impression,—visual. To the right and left were walls of human backs surrounding pools of light. The light came from green shaded lamps that hung from heavy cords. Peering over a triple row of shoulders he caught a glimpse of a green table and a scuttling ball.

He passed through a smaller room into a great central one. In contrast with the restful dignity of the atrium it was of a brilliant beauty. Huge columns of honey-coloured onyx seemed to strike the note of the decoration. Everything was in the same key, from the padded seats of yellow leather to the Watteau-like panels painted on the wall. Two immense chandeliers were tangles of gilt on which lights clustered like grapes on a vine. Everything seemed to shine, glisten, reflect. Even the inlaid floor was lustrous with the polish of a million gliding feet. Just as he had called the smaller room by the entrance the “Grey Room,” so he called this the “Hall of Light.” From the gleaming floor to the vast dome it suggested light.

There were five tables, and each was besieged by gamblers. Those in the outer row stretched and strained to get their money on the table, marking the numbers in glazed note-books, shouting their manner of staking, squabbling and scrambling for their gains. Hugh felt a little bewildered.

As he stood there a very curious thing happened. A tall, distinguished-looking woman, wearing a cream-coloured mantle, advanced to the centre of the hall. She took from under her mantle a plate of white china and deliberately let it fall to the floor. At the sharp crash those nearest turned, and in an instant she was surrounded by a curious crowd. Then as quietly as she had come she backed out and disappeared. Two attendants in light blue came forward and calmly gathered up the debris. The crowd, laughing, returned to the tables.

While Hugh was wondering what it meant, the affable little Mr. Jarvis Tope bustled up to him. Mr. Tope wore a white waistcoat and white spats, and was, as the French say, “pinned at the four corners.” His round red face was wreathed in a smile of welcome.

“Ha! young man, so at last you venture into the cave of the dragon. Well, it’s good to see a fresh face among so many stale ones. What was all the excitement about?”

Hugh told him of the lady and the plate. Tope laughed.

“Oh, is that all! Didn’t you know that to break china on the floor of the Casino is supposed to change one’s luck? It’s rather a desperate resort. The lady you saw must have been hard hit. Women believe in those things, mascots and so on. They bet on the number of their cloakroom check; they have their favourite tables and believe that the croupier can control the ball. Every woman who believes in any of these things is a fool; it’s astonishing how many are fools. Come, I’ll explain the game to you.”