The Sign of the Seven Sins
man allowed him monthly--and a most niggardly allowance, I’ve heard.”
“That’s quite possible, my dear Carmela,” she answered. “But one’s
position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire.
Old Benjamin is eccentric. I’ve met the old buffer several times. He’s
addicted to my pet abomination in a man--paper collars.”
“Then you’ll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?” I
laughed.
“Yes. I’m self-sacrificing, am I not?”
She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel,
and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of
Delight which somebody has suggested might be known by the Sign of the
Seven Sins.
Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type, pretty, with soft,
wavy chestnut hair, and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host
of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine, yet beneath her
corsets, I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love
and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change, and
flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them.
Neither, indeed, could I, for, living with her ever since my convent
days, I had imbibed her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks
of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the Grand
Hotel, we went over to Monte Carlo by the two o’clock “yellow” express.
Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera--that stretch
of azure sky, azure sea, of golden coasts, purple hills fringed with
olive and pine, rose and geranium running riot over hedge and hollow,
oranges golden and flowers white upon the same branch. The pale
violet of the Alps answers the violet of the valleys; white and gold
marguerites spangle the hill-side where the old rock village of Eze is
perched above; white and gold villas dot the wayside, and white and
gold are the decoration of that Casino wherein is centred all the human
vices--painted tastefully in white and gold--The Sign of the Seven Sins.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling
salle-de-jeu where the croupiers were crying in those mechanical,
strident tones “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” and uttering in warning
voice “Rien ne va plus!” I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those
grabbing crowds of smartly dressed people grouped around the tables?
Were they actually civilized beings--beings who had loved, suffered,
and lived, as I had loved, suffered, and lived?
How beautiful it was outside in that gay little Place with the red
Hungarian band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and
half the grande monde of Europe lounging about and chattering. How
enchanting was the grim Dog’s Head as a fitting background in dark
purple against the winter sunset, the old bronze Grimaldi rock rising
sheer from the turquoise sea surmounted by the white tower of Monaco
and the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right Villefranche and
San Juan shining in topaz and amber,--the Esterels as a necklace of
radiant jewels,--while to the left Bordighera was lying at the base of
its neck, like a pearl at a fair throat. And beyond there was Italy--my
own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a
paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day
was tempered by the thick curtains and the clink of gold mingled with
the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.
Some years ago--ah! now I am looking back: Ulrica is not at fault this
time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself in writing this
narrative not to think, but to try and forget all past unhappiness.
Try. Ah! would that I could calm my soul--steep it in a draught of
thoughtlessness, such that oblivion would come.
It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer and yet live. What a
blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman’s heart! Men may
look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our
hearts may be breaking we may wear a smile; we can fold our sorrows as
a bird folds its wings, for they are part of our physical being; we can
hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us.
Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all are, alas! a woman’s
heritage. Even in the few years I have lived I have had my share of
them all.
I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel
and the eager crowd of faces around it.
“Vingt! Rouge, pair et passé!” the croupier cried, and a couple of
louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with
the silver, notes, and gold to swell the bank.
I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron and pursed my
lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Florence had taught me
so long ago was very true, Amore non è senza amaro.
The millionaire’s son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was
played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had
once loved--the man whose slave I was--the man whom I had forgiven,
even though he had left me so cruelly.
Only three things could make life to me worth living--the sight of his
face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips.
But they could never be, alas! we were parted for ever--for ever.
“Now, play this time,” I heard Reggie beside me exclaim.
“Where?” I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of
my surroundings.
“On the line, there--between the numbers 9 and 12.”
I took a louis from my purse and with the rake carelessly pushed it
upon the line he had indicated. Then I turned to talk with Gerald.
“Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier.
A hundred necks were craned to watch the result.
The ball fell with a final click into one of the little spaces upon the
wheel.
“Neuf! Rouge, impair et manque!”
“You’ve won, my dear!” cried Ulrica excitedly, and in a few moments
Reggie, who raked up my winnings, gave me quite a handful of gold.
“There now,” he said, laughing, “you’ve made your first coup. Try
again.”
I crammed the gold into my purse, but it would not hold it all. The
three louis which would not go in I held in indecision in my hand.
“Play on the treize-dix-huit this time!” urged Reggie, and I obeyed him
blindly.
The number 18 came up, therefore I again received another little
handful of gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my
direction, and to me the excitement of winning was an entirely new
sensation.
Ulrica fancied the last dozen, and I placed five louis upon it, winning
a third time. Having won eight hundred francs in three turns of the
wheel, I began to think roulette not such wearying fun as I had once
believed it to be.
I wanted to continue playing, but the others prevented me. They knew
too well that the bank at Monte Carlo only lends its money to the
players.
With Reggie at my side I went out and strolled through those beautiful
gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and afterwards sat
on the terrace of the Café de Paris and enjoyed the brilliant sundown.
CHAPTER III
IS A MYSTERY
I was left alone with Reggie, for Ulrica had taken Gerald in to the
orchestral concert.
“What awfully good luck you had!” he observed after we had been
chatting some time. “If you’d had the maximum on each time you’d have
won about four thousand dollars.”
“There are a good many if’s in gambling,” I remarked. “I’ve never had
any luck before in gambles at bazaars and such-like places.”
“When you do have luck, follow it, is my motto,” he laughed. “I should
have advised you to continue playing to-day, only I thought it might
annoy Ulrica,” and he raised his glass to his lips.
“But I might have lost all that I won,” I remarked. “No, I prefer to
keep it. I’d like to be unique among the people and go away with some
of the bank’s money. I intend to keep what I have, and not to play
again.”
“Never?”
“Never!”
“My dear Miss Rosselli, that’s what everyone says here,” he laughed.
“But before you’ve been on the Riviera long you’ll discover that this
is no place for good resolutions. Gambling is one of the sweetest and
most insidious of vices, and has the additional attraction of being
thought chic. Look at the crowd of women here! Why, every one of them
play. If they didn’t, others would believe them to be hard up--and
poverty, you know, is distinctly bad form here. Even if a woman hasn’t
sufficient to pay her hotel bill she must wear the regulation gold
chatelaine,--the gold chain-purse,--if it only contains a couple of
pieces of a hundred sous. And she must play. Fortunes have been won
with only five francs.”
“Such stories, I fear, are only fairy tales,” I said incredulously.
“No. At least one of them is not,” he answered, blowing a cloud of
smoke from his lips and looking at me amusedly. “I was playing here one
night last March when a young French girl won three hundred thousand
francs after having first lost all she had. She borrowed a five-franc
piece from a friend and with it broke the bank. I was present at the
table where it occurred. Fortune is very fickle here.”
“So it seems,” I said. “That is why I intend to keep what I’ve won.”
“You might have a necklace made of the louis,” he said. “Many women
wear coins won at Monte Carlo attached to their bangles.”
“A happy thought!” I exclaimed; “I’ll have one put on my bangle
to-morrow as a souvenir.”
“Are you staying on the Riviera long?” he inquired presently.
“I really don’t know. When Ulrica is tired of it, then we shall move
down to Rome, I suppose.”
“When she’s lost sufficient, you mean,” he smiled. “She’s quite
reckless when she commences. I remember her here several seasons ago.
She lost very heavily. Luck was entirely against her.”
I too remembered her visit. She left me in Washington and went to
the Riviera for a couple of months, and on her return was constantly
bewailing her penury. This, then, was the secret of it. She had never
revealed to me the truth.
“And you think that I shall be stricken with the prevalent epidemic?” I
inquired.
“I hope not,” he answered quickly. “But after all, the temptation is
utterly irresistible. It is sad, indeed, that here in this corner of
God’s earth, which He has marked as the nearest approach to paradise,
should be allowed to flaunt all the vices and the seven deadly sins
which render the world horrible. Monte Carlo is the one blot upon
the Riviera. I’m a gambler,--I make no secret of it, because I find
resistance impossible while I have money in my pocket,--nevertheless,
much as I like a fling here each winter I would gladly welcome the
closing of the Casino. It is, alas! true that those red-carpeted steps
and the wide doors opposite form the entrance-gate to hell.”
I sighed, glancing over to the flight of steps before us, where the gay
wintering world in summer toilettes were passing up and down. He was
possessed of common sense and spoke the truth. Inside those rooms the
perspiring, perfumed crowds were fluttering around the tables as moths
around a candle, going headlong to ruin both moral and financial.
“Yes,” I observed reflectively, “I suppose you’re right. Thousands
have been ruined within that place.”
“And thousands have ended by committing suicide,” he added. “The
average number of suicides within this tiny Principality of Monaco is
more than two a day!”
“More than two a day!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes. Of course, the authorities bribe the press and hush it all
up, but the authentic figures were published not so long ago. The
Administration of the Casino find it cheaper to bury a corpse than to
pay a ruined gambler’s fare to St. Petersburg, London, or New York.
That’s why the poor devils who are cleaned out find the much-talked-of