The Gambler
handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to
have delivered me the missive at once—if you have really come
commissioned as you say.”
“Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so
strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your
intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and
thought that it could be given you at any time.”
“I understand,” I replied. “So you were ordered to hand me the note
only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is
it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers.”
“Perhaps,” said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at
me in a meaning way.
I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his
lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been
otherwise?
“You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman,” I muttered
as I descended the stairs. “Yes, we will measure our strength
together.” Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something
seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little,
and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to
enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked
myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I
had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed?
Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to
exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did
as he desired—at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of
course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a
riddle to me—they had been so ever since I had first made their
acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for,
even a contempt for—him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even
looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish
fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to
me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable
confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power
somehow—somehow he must be holding her as in a vice.
VIII
All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called—that is to say, in the
Chestnut Avenue—I came face to face with my Englishman.
“I was just coming to see you,” he said; “and you appear to be out on a
similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?”
“How do you know that?” I asked in astonishment. “Is _every one_ aware
of the fact?”
“By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment.
Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it.”
“Then how come you to know it?”
“Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like
you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit.”
“What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!” I cried, though still
wondering how he had come by his knowledge. “And since I have not yet
had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours,
let us adjourn to the Casino Café, where we can sit and smoke and have
a talk.”
The café in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had
been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no
smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen.
“I do not intend to go away,” was my first remark. “I intend, on the
contrary, to remain here.”
“That I never doubted,” he answered good-humouredly.
It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even
thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely
meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the
place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You
see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the
first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him,
although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no
sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some
reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything—to speak to him
of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on
the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the
first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at
certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him,
I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret:
and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little
over-personal.
Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a
sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly,
however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and
inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter
(he had always been a strange man in his mode of propounding
questions).
“No, I fear not,” I replied.
“And concerning this Marquis and Mlle. Polina you know nothing beyond
surmise?”
Again I was surprised that such a categorical question should come from
such a reserved individual.
“No, I know nothing _for certain_ about them” was my reply.
“No—nothing.”
“Then you have done very wrong to speak of them to me, or even to
imagine things about them.”
“Quite so, quite so,” I interrupted in some astonishment. “I admit
that. Yet that is not the question.” Whereupon I related to him in
detail the incident of two days ago. I spoke of Polina’s outburst, of
my encounter with the Baron, of my dismissal, of the General’s
extraordinary pusillanimity, and of the call which De Griers had that
morning paid me. In conclusion, I showed Astley the note which I had
lately received.
“What do you make of it?” I asked. “When I met you I was just coming to
ask you your opinion. For myself, I could have killed this Frenchman,
and am not sure that I shall not do so even yet.”
“I feel the same about it,” said Mr. Astley. “As for Mlle. Polina—well,
you yourself know that, if necessity drives, one enters into relation
with people whom one simply detests. Even between this couple there may
be something which, though unknown to you, depends upon extraneous
circumstances. For, my own part, I think that you may reassure
yourself—or at all events partially. And as for Mlle. Polina’s
proceedings of two days ago, they were, of course, strange; not because
she can have meant to get rid of you, or to earn for you a thrashing
from the Baron’s cudgel (which for some curious reason, he did not use,
although he had it ready in his hands), but because such proceedings on
the part of such—well, of such a refined lady as Mlle. Polina are, to
say the least of it, unbecoming. But she cannot have guessed that you
would carry out her absurd wish to the letter?”
“Do you know what?” suddenly I cried as I fixed Mr. Astley with my
gaze. “I believe that you have already heard the story from some
one—very possibly from Mlle. Polina herself?”
In return he gave me an astonished stare.
“Your eyes look very fiery,” he said with a return of his former calm,
“and in them I can read suspicion. Now, you have no right whatever to
be suspicious. It is not a right which I can for a moment recognise,
and I absolutely refuse to answer your questions.”
“Enough! You need say no more,” I cried with a strange emotion at my
heart, yet not altogether understanding what had aroused that emotion
in my breast. Indeed, when, where, and how could Polina have chosen
Astley to be one of her confidants? Of late I had come rather to
overlook him in this connection, even though Polina had always been a
riddle to me—so much so that now, when I had just permitted myself to
tell my friend of my infatuation in all its aspects, I had found myself
struck, during the very telling, with the fact that in my relations
with her I could specify nothing that was explicit, nothing that was
positive. On the contrary, my relations had been purely fantastic,
strange, and unreal; they had been unlike anything else that I could
think of.
“Very well, very well,” I replied with a warmth equal to Astley’s own.
“Then I stand confounded, and have no further opinions to offer. But
you are a good fellow, and I am glad to know what you think about it
all, even though I do not need your advice.”
Then, after a pause, I resumed:
“For instance, what reason should you assign for the General taking
fright in this way? Why should my stupid clowning have led the world to
elevate it into a serious incident? Even De Griers has found it
necessary to put in his oar (and he only interferes on the most
important occasions), and to visit me, and to address to me the most
earnest supplications. Yes, _he_, De Griers, has actually been playing
the suppliant to _me!_ And, mark you, although he came to me as early
as nine o’clock, he had ready-prepared in his hand Mlle. Polina’s note.
When, I would ask, was that note written? Mlle. Polina must have been
aroused from sleep for the express purpose of writing it. At all events
the circumstance shows that she is an absolute slave to the Frenchman,
since she actually begs my pardon in the note—actually begs my pardon!
Yet what is her personal concern in the matter? Why is she interested
in it at all? Why, too, is the whole party so afraid of this precious
Baron? And what sort of a business do you call it for the General to be
going to marry Mlle. Blanche de Cominges? He told me last night that,
because of the circumstance, he must ‘move with especial care at
present.’ What is your opinion of it all? Your look convinces me that
you know more about it than I do.”
Mr. Astley smiled and nodded.
“Yes, I think I _do_ know more about it than you do,” he assented. “The
affair centres around this Mlle. Blanche. Of that I feel certain.”
“And what of Mlle. Blanche?” I cried impatiently (for in me there had
dawned a sudden hope that this would enable me to discover something
about Polina).
“Well, my belief is that at the present moment Mlle. Blanche has, in
very truth, a special reason for wishing to avoid any trouble with the
Baron and the Baroness. It might lead not only to some unpleasantness,
but even to a scandal.”
“Oh, oh!”
“Also I may tell you that Mlle. Blanche has been in Roulettenberg
before, for she was staying here three seasons ago. I myself was in the
place at the time, and in those days Mlle. Blanche was not known as
Mlle. de Cominges, nor was her mother, the Widow de Cominges, even in
existence. In any case no one ever mentioned the latter. De Griers,
too, had not materialised, and I am convinced that not only do the
parties stand in no relation to one another, but also they have not
long enjoyed one another’s acquaintance. Likewise, the _Marquisate_ de
Griers is of recent creation. Of that I have reason to be sure, owing
to a certain circumstance. Even the name De Griers itself may be taken
to be a new invention, seeing that I have a friend who once met the
said ‘Marquis’ under a different name altogether.”
“Yet he possesses a good circle of friends?”
“Possibly. Mlle. Blanche also may possess that. Yet it is not three
years since she received from the local police, at the instance of the
Baroness, an invitation to leave the town. And she left it.”
“But why?”
“Well, I must tell you that she first appeared here in company with an
Italian—a prince of some sort, a man who bore an historic name
(Barberini or something of the kind). The fellow was simply a mass of
rings and diamonds—real diamonds, too—and the couple used to drive out
in a marvellous carriage. At first Mlle. Blanche played ‘trente et
quarante’ with fair success, but, later, her luck took a marked change
for the worse. I distinctly remember that in a single evening she lost