The Sign of the Seven Sins

Then, after some further discussion, the police officer thanked us, gave us an assurance of his most profound respect, and, accompanied by his silent subordinate, withdrew. “After all,” I remarked when they had gone, “it will be best, perhaps, to say nothing whatever to Gerald. He might mention it incautiously, and thus it might get into the papers.” “Yes, my dear,” answered Ulrica, “perhaps silence is best. But the trick played upon you passes comprehension. I don’t like the aspect of affairs at all, and if it were not for the fact that we have so many friends here in Nice, and that it is just the centre of the season, I should suggest the packing of our trunks.” “We shall leave soon,” I said, “as soon as the yachting party is complete.” That same night after our trip to Tourette we accompanied the Allens, a middle-aged American and his wife, who lived in Paris, over to Monte Carlo. The Battle of Flowers had taken place there during the day, and that event always marks the zenith of the gaming season. The Rooms were crowded, and the dresses, always magnificent at night, were more daring than ever. Half of fashionable Europe seemed there, including an English Royal Highness and a crowd of notables. One of De Lara’s operas was being played in the Casino theatre, and his works, being great favorites there, always attract a full house. The display of jewels at the tables was that night the most dazzling I had ever seen. Some women, mostly gay Parisiennes or arrogant Russians, seemed literally covered with diamonds, and as they stood around one risking their louis or five-franc pieces, it seemed strange that with jewels of that worth upon them they should descend to play with such paltry stakes. But many women at Monte Carlo play merely because it is the correct thing so to do, and very often are careless of either loss or gain. The usual characters were there: the wizened old man with his capacious purse; the old hag in black cashmere and rouged face playing and winning; and, alas! the foolish young man who staked always in the wrong place until he had flung away his last louis. In all the world there is no stranger panorama of life than that presented at ten o’clock at night at the tables of Monte Carlo. It is unique, indescribable--appalling. Temptation is spread before the unwary in all its forms, until the fevered atmosphere of gold and avarice throbs with evil, becomes nauseous, and one longs for a breath of the fresh night air and a refreshing drink to take the bad taste out of one’s mouth. I played, merely because Ulrica and Dolly Allen played. I think I won three or four louis, but am not certain of the amount. You ask why? Because seated at the table exactly opposite to where I stood unnoticed among the crowd was Ernest Cameron. At his side was the inevitable red and black card whereon he registered each number as it came up; before him were several little piles of louis and a few notes; while behind him, leaning now and then over his chair and whispering, was _that woman_! At frequent intervals he played, generally upon the dozens, and even then rather uncertainly. But he often lost. Once or twice he played with fairly large stakes upon a chance that appeared practically certain; but he had no luck, and the croupier raked them in. For fully a dozen times he staked two louis on the last twelve numbers, but with that perversity which sometimes seems to seize the roulette-ball, the numbers came up between 1 and 24. Suddenly the tow-haired woman who had replaced me in his affections leaned over and said in a voice quite audible to me,-- “Put the maximum on number 6!” With blind obedience he counted out the sum sufficient to win the maximum of six thousand francs, and pushed it upon the number she had named. “Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier next instant, and there, sure enough, I saw the ball drop into the number the witch had prophesied. The croupier counted the stake quickly, and pushed with his rake towards the fortunate player notes for six thousand francs, folded in half, with the simple words,-- “En plein.” “Enough!” cried the woman prompting him. “Play no more to-night!” He sighed, and with a strange, preoccupied air, gathered up his coin, notes, and other belongings, while a player tossed over a five-franc piece to “mark” his place, or, in other words, to secure his chair when he vacated it. Then, still obedient to her, he rose with a faint smile upon his lips. As he did so, he raised his eyes, and they fell full upon mine, for I was standing there watching him. Our gaze met suddenly. Next instant, however, the light died out from his countenance, and he stood glaring at me as though I were an apparition. His mouth was slightly opened, his hand trembled, his brows contracted, and his face grew ashen. His attitude was as though he were cowed by my presence. He remembered our last meeting. In a moment, however, he recovered his self-possession, turned his back upon me, and strolled away beside that woman who had usurped my place. CHAPTER XII CARRIES ME ON BOARD THE VISPERA Faces, even expressions, may lie, but eyes lie never. A man may commit follies; but once cured, those follies expand his nature. With a woman, alas! follies are always debasing. It was, I knew, a folly to love him. Life is always disappointing. The shattering of our idols, the revelation of the shallowness of friendship, the losing faith in those we love, and the witnessing of their fall from that pedestal whereon we placed them in our own exalted idealization--all is disappointing. I stood gazing after him as he strode down the great room with its bejewelled, excited crowd, where the chevalier d’industrie and the declassé woman jostled with the pickpocket, the professional thief, and the men who gamble at Aix, Ostend, Namur, or Spa as the seasons come and go, that strange assembly of courteous Italians, bearded Russians, well-groomed Englishmen, and women painted, powdered, and perfumed; those reckless beings qui péchent à froid, who sin not through the senses but through indifference. I held my breath; my heart beat so violently that I could hear it above the babel of voices about me. I suffered the most acute agony. Of late I had been always thinking of him--asleep, dreaming--always dreaming of him. Always the same pang of regret was within my heart, regret that I had allowed him to go away without a word, without telling him how madly, despairingly, I loved him. Life without him was a hopeless blank, yet it was all through my vanity, my wretched pride, my invincible self-love. I was now careless, indifferent, inconsequential, my only thought being of him. His coldness, his disdain, was killing me. Yes, when his eyes had met mine in surprise, they were strange, Sphinx-like, and mysterious. Yet at that moment I did not care what he might say to me. I only wished to hear him speaking to me: to hear the sound of his voice and to know that he cared enough for me to treat me as a human being. Ah, I trembled when I realized how madly I loved him, and how fierce was my hatred of that woman who issued her orders and whom he obeyed. I turned away with the Allens, while Ulrica cried delightedly that she had won on 16, her favorite number. But I did not answer. My heart had grown sick, and I went forth into the bright night air and down the steps towards the “ascenseurs.” On the steps a well-dressed young Frenchman was lounging, and as I passed down I heard him humming to himself that gay, catchy chanson so popular at the café concert: “A bas la romance et l’idylle, Les oiseaux, la forêt, le buisson, Des marlous, de la grande ville, Nous allons chanter la chanson! V’la les dos, viv’nt les dos! C’est les dos, les gros, Les beaux, A nous les marmites! Grandes ou petites; V’la les dos, viv’nt les dos; C’est les dos, les gros, Les beaux, A nous les marmit’ et vivent les dos!” I closed my ears to shut out the sound of those words. I remembered Ernest--that look in his eyes, that scorn in his face, that disdain in his bearing. The truth was, alas! too plain. His love for me was dead. I was the most wretched of women, of all God’s creatures. I prayed that I might regard him--that I might regard the world--with indifference, and yet I was sufficiently acquainted with the world and its ways to know that to a woman the word indifference is the most evil word in the language, that it is the most fatal of all sentiments, the most deadly of all attitudes. But Ernest, the man whose slave I was, despised me. He commanded my love. Why could not I command his? Ah! because I was a woman, and my face had ceased to interest him! Bitter tears sprang to my eyes, but I managed to preserve my self-control and enter the station-lift making an inward vow that never again in my whole life would I set foot in that hated hell within a paradise called Monte Carlo. True, I was a woman who amused myself wherever amusement could be obtained, but I still remained, as I had always been from those sweet well-remembered days at the gray old convent in Florence, an honest woman. At Monte Carlo the scum of the earth enjoy the flowers of the earth. I detested its crowds; I held in abhorrence that wild, turbulent avarice, and felt stifled in that atmosphere of gilded sin. No. I would never enter there again. The bitter remembrance of that night would, I knew, be too painful. I returned to Nice with a feeling that for me, now that Ernest had drifted from me to become a placid gambler and was indifferent, life had no further charm. The recollection of the days that followed can never be torn from my memory, my brain, my soul. I smiled, though I was wearing out my heart; I laughed even though bitter tears were ready to start to my eyes, and I made pretence of being interested in things to which I was at heart supremely indifferent. I courted forgetfulness, but the oblivion of my love would not come. I never knew till then how great was the passion a woman could conceive for a man, or how his memory could ever arise, a ghost from the past to terrify the present. That night as we drove from the station to the hotel Ulrica accidentally touched my hand. “How cold you are, dear!” she cried in surprise. “Yes,” I answered, shivering. I was cold; it was the truth. At thought of the man who had forsaken me an icy chill had struck my heart--the chill of unsatisfied love, of desolation, of blank, unutterable despair. In due course our yachting gowns came home from the dressmaker’s, --accompanied by terrifying bills, of course,--and a few days later we sailed out of Villefranche harbor on board the Vispera. The party was a well-chosen one, consisting mostly of youngish people, several of whom we knew quite well, and ere the second day was over we had all settled down to the usual routine of life on board a yacht. There was no sensation of being cramped up, but, on the contrary, the decks were broad and spacious, and the cabins perfect nests of luxury. The vessel had been built on the Clyde according to its owner’s designs, and it certainly was a miniature Atlantic liner. Our plans had been slightly altered, for as the majority of the guests had never been to Algiers it was resolved to make a run over there and then coast along Algeria and Tunis and so on to Alexandria. As we steamed away from Villefranche the receding panorama of the Littoral, with its olive-covered slopes and great, purple, snow-capped Alps, spread out before us, presenting a perfectly enchanting picture. We all stood grouped on deck watching it slowly sink below the horizon. From