Linnet: A Romance
Twenty thousand pounds down was the goal he set before him. After
that—well, who knows? He might perhaps stop . . . or—why this
moderation?—he might perhaps go on, if he chose, and double it.
In such heroic mood, like a winner already, Franz mounted the broad
steps of the great white Casino. Its magnificence for a moment abashed
and daunted him. He had never yet entered so splendid a building; never
trod so fine a room as that gorgeous atrium. However, he reflected next
instant that he came there that day armed with the passport which makes
a man welcome wherever he may go the wide world over—the talismanic
passport of money in his pocket. Regaining his usual swagger as he
mounted the steps, he followed the crowd into the office where cards of
admission were issued, and gave his name boldly once more, in a very
firm voice, as Herr von Forstemann of Vienna. Then, provided with the
necessary pasteboard which ensures admission to the rooms, he still
followed the stream into the vast, garish hall which contains the gaming
tables. Its size and its gorgeousness fairly took the man’s breath away.
Though the hour was still early, as Franz now reckoned time in his
cosmopolitanised avatar, he was surprised to find so immense a crowd of
players gathered in deep rows round table after table, opening into long
perspective of saloon after saloon in the farther distance. He drew up
to the first roulette-board, and watched the play carefully for several
minutes. Though he had studied the subject beforehand with books and
diagrams, and had made sure, as he thought, of the truth of his System
by frequent imaginary trials, it interested him immensely to see at last
in real life, and with tangible actors, the scene he had so long
contemplated in his feverish day-dreams.
The result was in some ways distinctly disappointing. He hadn’t allowed
to himself for so much bustle, so much noise, so many other players. In
his mental picture, he had seen his own money only; he had staked and
won, staked and lost, staked and won again incessantly, while croupiers
and bank existed, as it were, for his sole use and benefit. But here in
concrete reality, many complicating circumstances arose to distract him.
Other people crowded round, row after row in serried order, to put on
their own money without regard to his presence; and they put it all on
in so many incomprehensible and ridiculous ways—backing dozens, or
fours, or pairs, or columns, according to _their_ Systems, which he had
never thought of—that Franz for a stray minute or two felt thoroughly
bewildered. He almost lost his head. The sweet simplicity of the little
game he had played by himself on paper, against a bank which took no
heed of any stake but his, now vanished utterly; in its place came
chaos—a complex and distracting phantasmagoria of men and women
flinging down gold pieces at cross-purposes on numbers and colours;
sticking about their louis hap-hazard in reckless confusion on first or
last dozens; raking in and grabbing up, with eager hands, in hot haste;
till Franz’s brain began to reel, and he wondered to himself, amid so
many rolling coins, how each could tell at each turn what had happened
to his own money. In idea, he had confined himself to the System alone;
in practice, he found all the rest of the world engaged in playing ten
different games at once—_rouge-et-noir_, _passe-et-manque_,
_pair-et-impair_, and the rest of it—with distracting rapidity, at a
single table.
For a minute or two, he watched, with cat-like eyes, before venturing to
risk one of his hard-saved louis. But presently the sequence of numbers
and colours on the board reached a point which appeared to him specially
favourable for his System. Trembling greatly within, but swaggering
outwardly still, Franz leaned over between two stout players who sat
close by in front of him, and, edging himself sideways, passed through
the jostling crowd, till he had deposited twenty francs on _rouge_, with
a beating heart. For a minute he waited. Other people put their stakes
unpleasantly close to his; coins rolled in casually, here and there, and
were fixed by the croupier with his stick as voices behind directed. But
Franz kept his eyes fixed fast on his own good louis. Whr’r’r, rang the
roulette; “Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier. For a second or two, as
the thing spun, Franz felt his heart come up in his mouth with anxiety.
The ball jumped out; his quick eyes couldn’t follow it. Instinctively,
he kept them fixed on his louis still. “Dix-sept gagne; impair, rouge,
manque,” cried the croupier. A flush of triumph rose up all unbidden on
Franz’s face. The System was justified then! he had won a louis!
By his side, the croupier raked in whole heaps of gold and silver. Then
he began to pay out; here a beggarly five francs; there, ten broad
yellow pieces. At last he came to Franz, and flung a louis carelessly by
the side of the Tyroler’s stake. Franz picked it up with a sense of
ineffable triumph. A louis all at once! If he went on like this, he
would soon grow rich! Twenty francs for a turn of the wheel! it was
splendid, splendid!
He played again, and played on. Fortune favoured the beginner. They say
’tis a trick of hers. The siren lures you. Time and again, he staked and
won; lost a little; won it back again. He was five louis to the good
now—eight—six—four—eleven again. Then, for awhile, he went up
steadily—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and so on to twenty. By
that time, he grew elated. Why, the System was sure a royal road to
riches. Lieber Gott, what fortune! He’d begun by thinking of
twenty-franc stakes alone; he doubled them now, putting down at each
time two napoleons together. Whr’r’r went the roulette afresh; black
won; the inexorable valet raked in his two louis. Eighteen to the good
now! never mind; try your luck again! Bravely he adventured another
forty francs, this time on _passe_—so the System would have it.
Twenty-two came out as the winning number! With joy and delight he saw
his stake doubled; twenty to the good once more! Hurrah! this was
splendid!
Stop now! The next _coup_ demanded (by the System) that he should back a
number—either twelve or twenty-four, as fancy dictated. With trembling
fingers he laid down two louis on twelve. Once more, fortune favoured
him. When he saw the croupier pay out seventy-two good gold coins on top
of his own piece, Franz was almost beside himself. He clutched them up
hurriedly, lest some grabber should snatch them, as often happens at the
tables. While he did so, he felt a friendly tap on his shoulder from
behind. He looked round suddenly. “So your System works well!” a cheery
voice exclaimed, congratulatory. Franz nodded and smiled; ’twas his
friend, Mr Holmes, that despiser of all Systems.
For the rest of that day, Mr Holmes hovered near, and kept an eye on
Franz quietly. From time to time, to be sure, he followed some loser
outside, and disappeared for half-an-hour in a mysterious way, after
which little interval he somehow always turned up smiling. But whenever
he came back it was to Franz’s side; and he reappeared each time with
the self-same question, “How much to the good now? been winning or
losing?” And each time Franz was able, on the whole, in spite of
fluctuations, to report progress;—seventy louis, ninety three, a
hundred and one, a hundred and twenty! People about began to mark
Franz’s play by now. ’Twas another Mr Wells, they said; one would do
wisely to follow him.
He played till evening. About seven o’clock, Holmes invited him to
dinner at the Hotel de Paris. Franz strolled off, well content; why
shouldn’t he dine in peace? A hundred and thirty-four louis to the good
was now the reckoning.
The affable stranger wished to stand champagne. But no Viennese
gentleman with a Von to his name could permit such a reversal of the
rules of politeness, when he was winning heavily. Franz ordered it
himself—Dry Monopole of the best brand—and drank the larger half of
it. After dinner, they hurried back to the tables once more. Franz soon
got a seat; he was playing high enough now for Monte Carlo to respect
him. For in the _salles de jeu_ you are respected in precise proportion
to your stakes. Mr Holmes, too, put down a quiet five-franc piece now
and again on colour. “Just like my luck!” he exclaimed, as black turned
up each time. “I’m the unluckiest dog at games of chance, I declare,
that ever was born. I never touch them, somehow, but I burn my fingers.
There’s a fate in it, I think!” And so indeed it seemed. He lost every
single silver piece he adventured.
But as for Franz, he won steadily. He had advanced his stake, now, with
his advancing fortunes, to five louis a turn! When he saw five louis go,
he hardly even noticed it. They came back again so soon—five, ten,
fifteen, twenty. Oh, oh, but this was royal sport indeed! Three hundred
louis one minute, then down again the next to two hundred and seventy,
and up once more with a bound to two-eighty-five, two-ninety, three
hundred. Coins became as counters to him: gold seemed to flow in and
flow out like water. It was five louis lost, five won, five lost again.
But as the rising tide first advances, then recedes, then once more
advances, so, in spite of occasional temporary reverses, the tide of
Franz’s fortune rose steadily, steadily. He played on till the croupiers
were clearing the tables for the night. When he left off at last,
perforce, at the final spin, he reckoned to the good three hundred and
twenty-seven bright French gold pieces.
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE BUBBLE BURSTS
Complacent Mr Holmes saw him safely off by the last train to Nice,
before retiring for the night to his own snug quarters. ’Tis thus one
prepares one’s pigeons for the plucking. When Franz arrived at the
hotel, he called for more champagne, to celebrate his victory; and,
failing other friends, shared drinks with the waiter.
Next morning, he was over again at Monte Carlo betimes, though with a
chastening headache. He got a seat at once, and sat down to it like a
man who means to win a fortune. His experience of yesterday had only
strengthened his preconceived belief in the infallibility of his System.
Encouraged by luck, he began playing from the outset now on the basis of
staking five louis a time on each turn of the roulette wheel. For the
first two or three twirls, fortune still went with him. He won as easily
as he had won the preceding evening. But, after a few hazards, the
chance began to change; he lost once, twice, thrice, as quickly as he
had won at the outset of his playing. Presently, he was aware of Mr
Holmes at his side, watching his play with a self-restrained smile of
cynical indifference. That smile put Franz Lindner at once upon his
mettle. He began to plunge desperately. Five louis on black;—they went
like water. Five louis on _manque_ were equally unsuccessful. Time after
time Franz played; and time after time he lost again. His winnings had
gone down now to two hundred louis. He began to reflect whether it
mightn’t be wise to reduce his stake again for a while, during this run
of ill-luck, from five louis to two. He even tried it once; but a
disapproving murmur from a lady behind decided him to stick to the game
he had so far been playing. “You should never change your stakes,” she
said, “when you’re losing, you know; it’s an insult to chance, and it
brings bad luck with it.” Franz was too good a Tyroler not to be
thoroughly superstitious; so he accepted the bystander’s disinterested
advice, and continued to put down his five gold pieces.
But still, luck was hard. If it’s easy to win three hundred pounds at a
go, it’s easier still to lose them. And yet, Franz felt sure that,